Neutral Men
by Ciceroscobie
Summary: Endings are often also beginnings. What does Jim Keats want from Gene Hunt, and what does he offer in return? And just who *is* he, really? Huge SPOILERS for the finale. Set after episode 3.8. Part 6 up!
1. The Devil Wears Primark

**Neutral Men**

_We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell_

Oscar Wilde

_Neutral men are the devil's allies _

Edwin Hubbel Chapin

**1: The Devil Wears Primark**

_O miserable man, what a deformed monster has sin made you! God made you "little lower than the angels"; sin has made you little better than the devils_

Joseph Alleine

"Look, I'm telling you, I don't belong here! I want to go home!" Daniel Connor was, and probably always would be, a stubborn little git. There was no changing that; unfortunately, after three weeks of the same whiny litany, it was becoming boring. Gene Hunt was extremely close to alleviating that boredom with Connor's kidneys - or spleen, ribs, face – whichever met his boot first.

"You want to go home?" he snarled, grabbing his DI by the collar and pulling him up to eye-level, noses almost touching.

"Yes," Connor managed, half-throttled. He was lucky it was only half.

"Well _I _want Elizabeth Taylor to march in here in a thong and give me a Thai massage, but it's not going to happen, is it?"

"No."

"No what?"

"No, because she's in her bleeding seventies and she wouldn't get her zimmerframe through the door, you barmy old fart!"

Gene dropped the exasperating man to the floor, lips pursed in disgust. "Don't be blasphemous. Elizabeth Taylor is a lovely woman in her prime, never let me hear you say different."

Connor scrambled to his feet, backing away from Gene, which was both flattering and annoying – annoying because it put him out of kicking range.

"If I hear you whining about wanting to go home to your mother once more, Danny-boy, I'll nail you to the wall upside-down and naked and use you as a dartboard, with the piles up your scraggy arse as the bullseye, got it?"

Connor perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded, lower lip sticking out at least half an inch, eyes downcast. Gene grabbed the lip between finger and thumb and pulled it out a bit further, just enough to hurt.

"I said, have you got that, Detective Inspector Pouting-Like-A-Girl Nancyboy?"

"Uhh!" said Connor, trying in vain to retract his lip.

"That's 'uhh, _Guv_'," Gene growled, and released him with a short slap to the face, lighter than he deserved. Turning his back on Connor, he addressed the rest of his team.

"For those of us who aren't whiny, sulky little mother's boys, let's get back to the case in hand. Before I go on, does anybody else intend to start blubbing?"

A general mutter of 'no, Guv'.

"Good. Now, this particular nasty bastard," he pinned up the grim-looking mugshot of a dishevelled, unwashed, black-haired man in his thirties, "is already well-known to police. Can anybody tell me why?"

A young man with a ridiculous peroxide blonde spiky haircut put up his hand.

"DC Billy Idol, at the back there," Gene acknowledged.

"Suspect in a previous murder inquiry, Guv. Two teenage girls in Piccadilly, ten years ago."

"Right. I'm glad somebody's paying attention. Now, why wasn't this vicious child-murdering scumbag sent to prison? Somebody else this time. Don't be shy."

A thin, middle-aged detective sergeant with greying hair spoke up. "Not enough evidence for the police to charge him, Guv."

"You what?" Gene was momentarily distracted by some plonk scurrying into the room like a squirrel with its backside on fire. No respect, plonks these days.

"I mean…too much southern-nancy fannying about, Guv," the sergeant corrected himself.

"Exactly. But we, being of a different and altogether more manly approach to criminal investigation, are going to nail this evil piece of Cockney scum – and I'm about to tell you how."

Gene broke off with an irritated sigh. The plonk at the door was now waving a bit of paper at him, her pink face apologetic, but insistent.

"What?"

"Sorry, sir, but there's somebody to see you. From Discipline and Complaints, sir."

"I. Am. Working. Tell him come back later with a bottle of single malt and a packet of pork scratchings, then maybe – just maybe – I'll talk to him."

The plonk looked unhappy. "He insisted. He said it was important. There's a note for you." She handed over the bit of paper. Gene unfolded it, green eyes narrowing as he studied the few choice words inside:

I'M COMING FOR YOU, HUNT.

"Kinky," Gene observed. He turned the note over. It wasn't signed. "Did he give you his name, this bringer of perverted tidings?"

The WPC nodded. "He said he was from D&C, sir, but – well, he looked a bit rough around the edges, to me."

"I asked for his name, love, not a critique of gentleman's fashion."

She flinched under his steely gaze, mumbling, "Keats, sir. He said his name was DI Keats."

Gene stood behind his desk, pouring himself a large whisky. He certainly remembered Detective _Chief_ Inspector Jim Keats – aka The Man From D&C. Keats, the slimy, sneaky stationery-rogerer who had so nearly filched Gene's team from under his nose. At least Ray, Chris, Shaz and Bolly were out of Keats' grubby clutches now; although – not that Gene would ever admit it - he missed them: his new team wasn't completely satisfactory. Connor appeared to be more than half bonkers, with his wittering about being a DCI back home, claiming to see visions, moaning about how things were supposed to be better - and what in hell was an I-phone, anyway? And as for that kid with the Billy Idol haircut...Gene shook his head. Young coppers these days; not worth the taxpayer's money, half of them. And then there were creepy cretins like Keats, smarmy bureaucrats trying to destroy everything that was good and just about policing. Gene shuddered, swallowing half the whisky at a gulp.

"All right," he called, opening his office door, "let him in."

Keats had spent the last few minutes hammering on, and occasionally throwing his skinny-arsed weight against, the double doors outside CID, doors in front of which which Gene had recently placed a couple of his heaviest men. If he was going to have conversation with Dodgy Jimbo Keats, he wanted the man off-balance and out of sorts from the start.

"Oh dear, Jim," he remarked, as a dishevelled-looking figure finally stumbled inside and fell on his face, Gene's men having stepped aside abruptly, allowing physics to take its course. "Doors must have stuck. Sorry about that." He swaggered closer, watching the interloper carefully as he got unsteadily to his feet. Keats looked as though he'd been dragged through a dirty puddle, chased through a hedge by a pack of rabid rottweilers, and thrown in the Thames to finish off. Must be raining cat and dogs outside. As well as soggy, Keats' long coat was ragged and torn, his horn-rimmed glasses broken and lopsided.

"Where've you been, Jimbo? Visiting your mother for a bit of home comfort?" Gene asked. "Doesn't look as though she was very pleased to see you. Looks more like she did the decent, public-spirited thing and tried to run you over with her car. As well she might – it's her fault you exist."

"You think this is a joke?" Keats rasped. He stumbled closer. Gene took an involuntary step back; not that he was frightened of Keats, but there was something…wrong about him. Off. He was walking in a weird, jerky fashion, and every so often a nerve in his face would twitch.

"You're the expert on jokes, Jim, being such a good one yourself."

A few of Gene's men tittered. Connor was a notable exception. He was looking at Keats curiously. He seemed even more interested when Keats rasped,

"You don't know what it cost me to get back here. The things I had to do, just to be the one to tell you, personally…"

"Tell me what?" Gene growled. Bravado. He wished he'd brought his whisky out with him. There was something about Keats he couldn't quite put his finger on, couldn't quite remember. An unpleasant little niggling fact. Was he a fan of musical theatre? A junkie? A United fan? Or something even worse...no, there wasn't anything worse.

"Tell me what?" he repeated, sharply, but Keats wasn't looking at him any more. He was staring at Connor.

"Another one…" he muttered.

"Another what? Prat?"

Keats was still staring at Connor, and he started laughing as he did, a high-pitched, off-key hyena caterwaul that jangled on your nerves. Not a hyena though, not exactly. More like the sound a jackal would make if it could laugh. _Don't be stupid, Genie,_ the Guv told himself. _How do you know what a jackal sounds like_? A daft thought, but somehow Keats always made him feel off-kilter, as though he'd just taken something profoundly hallucinogenic. As though a hundred bizarre things could happen when this man was in the room, and none of them any good.

"Are you all right?" Connor was saying, and Gene swung around, almost touched, but the DI was talking to Keats, not him. Connor took hold of Keats' arm, and it required all Gene's self-control not to yell, _don't touch him, for Christ's sake!_

"Put him down, Danny-boy. You don't know where he's been."

"The man's having some sort of seizure…"

Several people jumped when Keats broke out into another cackle, louder and longer this time, as though Gene's remark was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, so funny that it was, in fact, killing him. "Where…I've…been," he kept gasping, between peals of wheezy merriment, "where…I've…_been!_"

There was a long silence. Even Connor had backed off, looking alarmed. "Yes, well," Gene said, eventually. "Come into my office, Jimbo. I'll see if I've got a nice bottle of valium for you in the bottom of me filing cabinet."

In Gene's office, Keats dropped into a chair without being invited, though to be fair, it didn't look as though he'd had much choice - a light wind could have knocked him over. He coughed, a wet rattle of a sound, as if his throat were full of rainwater. Ignoring this, Gene topped up his own whisky without offering his guest any, unable to tell whether Keats' glance at the bottle was disgusted or wistful or both, but pleased that he was in some way dissatisfied.

"Up to your old tricks, Jim?" Gene asked, sitting down.

"Cold." Keats was clearly talking to himself, rather than Gene. "Cold," he muttered again, distractedly, pulling his tattered coat more tightly around himself. "Always too cold."

When it became clear that Keats wasn't going to say anything else without prompting, Gene made an attempt at pleasant conversation. "That's a crap suit you're wearing," he said. "Where'd you get it from, a car boot sale? A budget supermarket? Gone down in the world, have we?"

Glassy eyes weaved up to his face. "That's not funny. No, it is funny, but I'm not laughing, Hunt. You know why?"

"Enlighten me." Gene lit a fag. Keats licked his lips, staring at the lighter's flame. Taking pity, Gene waved it towards him, indicating the offer of a cigarette. To his surprise Keats shuffled back in his seat, looking furious.

"Petty," he wheezed. "You petty bastard, do you think you can mock me? Do you?"

His head slumped forward on his chest; Gene thought he'd fainted from an excess of twattiness until, with equal suddenness, he sat up and said quite pleasantly,

"I told you we'd meet again, Gene. Do you remember?"

Gene didn't remember, not clearly, anyway. It sounded like the sort of thing the slimy git would say, though.

"I've been trying hard to forget everything I ever came unwillingly to know about you, Jimbo."

Keats let out a long, hissing breath.

"You don't remember. Oh, how _sad_. The great Gene Hunt, patron of so many tormented coppers who pass through his calloused but tender hands, and he doesn't even know it." Keats was on his feet, leaning across the desk, hands reaching as if to grab for Gene's throat. "You're pathetic!" he shrieked. "Pathetic! It isn't fair! Why do they deserve it? Why do _you_?"

Gene was getting used to mad people in his office; he seemed to be cursed with barmy DIs, after all – Sam, Bolly, and now sulky-bollocks Connor, who was shaping up to be the worst of the lot. Nonetheless, Keats' slavering and spitting was making him uncomfortable. He felt…contaminated by the man's presence. Not afraid, of course. The Manc Lion laughed in the face of fear. He made an effort to laugh in the face of Jim Keats, as well, but it didn't quite come off.

"Tell me!" his unwanted guest was howling now. "Tell me one good, honest, logical, rational reason why I can't have what you have?"

Gene glanced down at his near-empty glass. "Buy your own," he said.

Keats snatched the glass, raised it high in the air and threw it back onto the desk. It shattered, splattering them both with single malt and pinprick shards. Gene leapt to his feet, indignant, then froze when he saw what Keats was doing: picking up the largest piece of glass, drawing its jagged edge across his own palm. A deep cut appeared; a cut that somehow failed to bleed. Keats prodded it as if hoping that it would, shaking his head when a single tiny, near-black glob of liquid oozed out, followed by a drizzle of what appeared to be stagnant water.

"Nothing left," he muttered. "Almost nothing."

Gene swallowed hard before grabbing a replacement glass and the half-full whisky bottle. "What're you talking about, there's plenty left."

The response was a kind of sad hooting noise, like an owl in the last stages of syphilis.

"Have you ever thought about doing the club circuit?" Gene wondered, pouring. "You'd bring the house down. The Amazing Jimbo Keats and his animal impersonations. Very original."

Keats slowly removed his broken glasses. His hands were shaking; he sat down again, folding them in front of him.

"Guv?" a knock at the door; Gene jumped. So did Keats, funnily enough. "What?" Gene barked.

It was Connor's voice; Connor who had never, until now, called Gene 'Guv' without prompting. "Everything all right in there?"

"We're fine, Danny-boy. I believe DCI - _DI_ - Keats is about to take his leave of us. Aren't you, Jimbo?"

"I haven't said what I came to say," Keats replied, adding, apparently to himself, "I need to pull myself together. It's all coming apart."

"See a doctor," Gene advised. "Maybe he can put it back together again. You've said bugger-all that makes any sense, but the floorshow was quite amusing, so thanks for that. Off you trot. You're not welcome in my station, or have you forgotten?"

Keats sat back slowly in his chair. "_I_ haven't," he said, thoughtfully.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Nothing, Gene. I came to give you a warning."

"Resorting to threats now? I got your little note, by the way."

Keats shook his head impatiently, as though he didn't have time for this. He could have saved himself a few minutes by leaving out the screeching and spitting, Gene thought, unsympathetically. "The note wasn't from me. I came to give you a friendly warning. My superior was…unsatisfied with my report about you. He considered it a bit light on the important details. I got into a spot of trouble over it, frankly. I was...demoted." He plucked sadly at his cheap, torn clothing.

"My heart bleeds."

"You know who my superior is, don't you?"

"Coco the Clown?"

"I'm serious!" Keats hissed.

Gene shrugged, nursed his drink. "Some overweight, overpaid, pencil-pushing armchair lover at D&C."

Keats looked at him, shaking his head. "Shit," he said, without heat or force. "I hate you, Hunt. I really, really hate you. Why are you making this so hard for me?"

Gene shrugged. "All part of the service, Jim."

Keats peered at him a moment longer, looking right inside him, it seemed. His eyes were full of a cold flame that was trying to burn all the way through to Gene's soul. Where had _that_ unpleasant meta-whatsit come from?

"I report directly to the Deputy Chief Constable," he said finally, wearily.

"Bully for you."

"…who is coming here. To see you, Hunt. To finish you, to bring you down, in person, today."

"Is he now. Tell you what, I'll put the kettle on while you change into your best frilly knickers for him."

"Such arrogance…" Keats' eyes were empty except for that burning light; it seemed very far inside him, like a fire at the end of a long, black tunnel. Gene had noticed it before, and it had made his insides shrivel, but never like this. _He's going to tell me something,_ was the thought reverberating inside his head, _he's going to tell me something and I don't want to know. I don't __ever want to know. _Stop him, there had to be a way to stop him…

Keats was smirking now; he had seen Gene's fear, despite his best efforts, and it pleased him. He leaned forward, reached out and, horribly, touched his fingertips to Gene's face. It was like being branded.

"You're sweating," he said, in a satisfied tone. "You're not afraid of my superior, but you're afraid of _me_." A harsh cackle. "I suppose I must have made a subconscious impression on you, after all!"

Gene poured another drink. If he told himself his hands weren't trembling, then it must be true. Keats was watching him with feral hunger.

"The things I wish I could show you," he sighed, "_remind_ you about…beautiful, awful things - if only it weren't against the rules. I hoped this time you might hang on to it, I really did."

"What's against the rules, Jimbo," Gene was pulling himself together, the whisky settling his writhing stomach, "is molesting a fellow officer in a French manner." He shoved Keats' feverish hand away from his face. "I don't care if it's awful or beautiful or a twelve-inch gut-buster, I don't want you showing it to me, especially not when I've just had me breakfast. You're leaving. Now."

Keats made no move. Gene grabbed him by the throat. "I said, _now_."

He reached up and placed his long, thin hand on Gene's thick wrist, wrapping his hot fingers around it almost absent-mindedly, without making any attempt to drag Gene's hand away from his collar. "You should have let me have them," he said. "Even one of them might have been enough. Ray. Ray at least should have been mine."

"Ray preferred to stay with his Guv, where he belonged," Gene barked, "because he knew I'd look after him. They all did."

"But they're not with you now, are they, Gene?" As though urging him to work something out. It grated on Gene's nerves.

"They've moved on," he muttered. He let go of Keats' collar. "Chris went back to Manchester. Took Shaz with him. Ray got promoted, well-deserved - he's their DCI now. Alex…Alex went abroad. Somewhere bright and cheerful when she could walk around in a bikini all day, overexciting the locals. They're fine. They're happy. They're a long way away from you."

"Keep in touch, do they?" Another nerve-jangling snicker.

Gene felt bile rising in his throat. He struggled to remember, looking anywhere but into those burning eyes. Had there been a letter, a postcard? He glanced at his notice board, and there it was: postcard from Alex. Somewhere warm and sunny. Palm trees, cool breeze. Good; that was good.

Keats followed his gaze; smile widening, he gave the smallest shake of his head. "All right, they're well and happy. Well done, congratulations." He slow-clapped. "But you couldn't keep them forever. And you won't be able to keep that one, either." He nodded towards the door. Connor was still standing outside, a little way off, pretending to be on the phone while trying to listen to their conversation.

Gene snorted. "Think I want him?"

"Yes. I think you do. I think you want to save them all, the great and sainted Gene Stephen Hunt. All except one, eh? One who wasn't good enough for your precious kingdom," he spat. "But you won't win. Not this time. Not without my help."

Gene snorted. The day he let Keats help him was the day hell froze over. "Any why would that be, _James_?"

Keats' smile was serpentine. "Because my superior intends to transfer the folks at Fenchurch East to his department. All of them." Dark, dancing eyes met Gene's. "He's coming, Hunt, and this time, he wants _you._"


	2. The Devil Wears a Smile

**2: The Devil Wears a Smile**

_The devil is and always has been a gentleman_

- Diane LaVey

_**Previously in 'Neutral Men':**_

Keats' smile was serpentine. "Because my superior intends to transfer the folks at Fenchurch East to his department. All of them." Dark, dancing eyes met Gene's. "He's coming, Hunt, and this time, he wants _you_."

xxxxxxxx

"Well, he can't bloody have me." Gene poured himself another drink, then, as an afterthought, one for Keats as well. Didn't do to be petty, and his guest obviously wasn't going anywhere until Gene picked him up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him through the window. Let him have a drink first.

Keats grabbed the whisky, sucking it down like an old dame getting dead spiders off the ceiling with her hoover pipe.

"Thirsty?"

"You've no idea."

Gene inspected the items on his desk for a bit. He studied his whisky bottle, the well-thumbed owner's manual for his Merc, a newly-won darts trophy. Jim was sitting very still and silent; after a few minutes, when Gene looked up to check the man hadn't died, he found Keats staring at him fixedly through his lopsided specs.

"I get the feeling," Gene began, conversationally, "that you're here to offer me some sort of deal, Jimbo. Let it be known that Gene Hunt doesn't bargain with sneaky little villains like you."

"Gene Hunt doesn't have a choice," Keats stated.

"Go on then. What's this great and bountiful gift you're offering me? If it's an expenses-paid holiday in the Costa Brava, I don't bloody want it."

"Imagine how warm it is on the Costa Brava," Keats murmured, a dreamy look coming into his eyes.

Gene slammed a hand down on the desk. "Oi. Get your brain in gear and your head out of your arse, or I'll put you out in the rain like the ruddy skulking feline you are. You've got one minute to give me a reason not to chuck you out of the window."

Keats appeared to have marshalled his thoughts. He was calmer, more in control. Perhaps the whisky had helped. "It's simple, Hunt. My boss is coming to make things difficult for you and your department. I'm not exactly in his good books myself at the moment, but if you ensure he lets _me_ run the investigation at this end, I'll do everything I can to help you."

Gene thought about it. He really did. For all of ten seconds. "No."

"Why?"

"Because I don't trust you. Because you've made it clear that your mission is to destroy me. And because you're the single most disgusting piece of sub-human shit I've ever met in my life."

"Oh, yes, let's resort to the playground insults. What am I suppose to say to that - 'I know you are'? Look, Gene," he leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. Gene leaned back, taking his whisky out of range. "You have no idea what you're dealing with here. I do."

"And what do you get out of it? Am I supposed to believe you're making this charitable offer out of the kindness of your black, withered heart?"

Keats let out a sigh of frustration. He pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusted his glasses, attempted ineffectually to smooth down his hair. Gene waited, expressionless.

"Ok. All right. I'll level with you."

"There's a first."

"When I started working for my boss..."

"This would be Assistant Chief Commissioner Beelzebub?" Gene interpolated, innocently.

Keats looked at him as if wondering whether he was supposed to read something beyond casual insult into that remark. "I normally call him Nick," he murmured. "Just shut up and listen to me. Nick made me a lot of promises. He offered me a department of my own, as long as I could find suitable officers to staff it. Understand?"

"So you tried to poach my team?"

"You should be flattered. Nick only wanted the best."

"He didn't want me, though, apparently. Not very flattering, is it?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Keats sighed again. "He thinks now that he made a miscalculation. That he should have gone right to the source. Thing is, there's nothing he can offer you that you don't already have. You've got everything you want."

"Wouldn't say no to Elizabeth Taylor."

"That's a bit beyond even his abilities, at present," came the dry response. "I don't know what his plan is – what tricks he might try to play on you. He doesn't confide that sort of information in me any more, I'm afraid. But I do know how his mind works, and chances are, I'll be able to figure out what it is he's up to a lot more quickly than you will. I have an advantage you don't."

"Which is?" Gene was willing to humour him for another minute or two. Then it was window time.

"Objectivity. When it comes to your kingdom, I'm on the outside looking in. You can't deny that it might be useful."

When Gene remained silent, thinking, Keats got up and began to pace. "We don't have much time!" he cried. "Look, it's so simple even you should be able to understand it. I've got no love for you, Hunt, and you have none for me. You think I've been out to get you in the past and honestly, you're not wrong. But my superior's _worse. _Worse than you can possibly imagine. You need my help if you're going to survive."

Gene shook his head. It didn't add up. Last he'd heard, Keats didn't want him to survive – quite the opposite. "You still haven't explained what you get," he said, meeting the other man's gaze. He tried to see past the posturing, the smooth-talking, the sales pitch, and thought he'd succeeded when he spotted something in Keats' eyes he only remembered seeing once before.

Fear.

"I get..." Keats was saying. He glanced nervously at his watch, frowned in exasperation for some reason, then checked the clock on Gene's wall. "He'll be here in a minute. What I get is a _chance. _He'll never give me what he promised, I know that now. Maybe you can."

"Me?"

"All I ask is that you _invite me to stay_ when all this is over."

"There's no need for that, Jim. I can't seem to get bloody rid of you."

"You don't understand. But you will. He's coming!" Keats' eyes widened, his face becoming quite frantic as he talked very fast. "It's your decision. I can't force you. Whatever you choose, just don't mention we had this conversation. Please. If he finds out I've been talking to you like this he could dismiss me from the force. There's no turning back after that, Gene. This job is all I have left - the same as you."

He stopped dead, apparently on the verge of appealing to Gene's compassion for a fellow officer. Pity Gene didn't rate Keats as a fellow human being, let alone a fellow officer.

"He's here," Keats said, quietly. He gave Gene a significant look before slinking out of the office.

A deathly silence had replaced CID's usual chaotic hubbub. Gene got up, went to the window, whisky in hand. He saw an unfamiliar man, tallish, average build, thick iron-grey hair neatly cut and swept back from his forehead. He was talking to one of the sergeants, sharing a joke. The man laughed uncertainly in response, breaking the spell that had settled over the room. Gene's men started talking again, coming forward to greet the newcomer, shaking hands, receiving smiles and patted backs. Only Connor hung back, watching narrowly.

Jim Keats, for his part, hovered behind the new arrival like a nervous butler waiting to report that Lady Wotsit's kid had just thrown up all over the expensive rug in the drawing room. He caught Gene's eye and pointed urgently - _This is him!_

Gene could have guessed that for himself. He hitched up his belt, drew himself up to his full height, and strode out to meet what Jim Keats claimed was his new nemesis.

Before he could say a word, the newcomer turned to him. Gene saw a face that could have been anything between fifty and seventy, bright blue eyes that crinkled kindly, a warm, open smile.

"Chief Inspector Hunt! I believe Jim told you to expect me?" He flashed his fatherly smile at Keats, skulking nearby. Keats quirked a pained half-smile in return; he looked as though he was having a tooth pulled by a friendly dentist.

"Deputy Assistant Commissioner Nick Callaghan," the older man introduced himself, holding out his hand to Gene as he flicked an amused glance in Keats' direction. "I must say, it's a pleasure to finally meet the notorious Sheriff of Fenchurch East."

"Thank you, sir." Gene shook hands. Callaghan's grip was firm, but not as firm as Gene's own. No attempt to assert his authority. He did, however, get right down to business.

"I realise this is a frightful bore, Gene, but you know how it is – public relations have become the bane of the police force. I've been charged with the task of ensuring that all our stations can pass muster even under the public's most careful scrutiny – and believe me, that scrutiny is very careful indeed. Shall we go into your office?"

He put a friendly hand on Gene's back, steering him away from the others. Keats followed at a distance. Shooing Gene into his own office, Callaghan waited indulgently for his pet pencil-pusher to sidle in after them before closing the door and pulling down the blind.

"You're aware," he went on, gesturing that Gene should sit down, relax, "that the last D&C investigation of your department was something of a bust, if I may put it that way." His eyes flicked briefly, again, to Keats, standing otherwise ignored in the corner. "As Inspector Keats' report was unfortunately inadequate for the purpose – through no fault of his own, of course – I am compelled to start again from scratch. I assure you," he held up a hand as Gene opened his mouth to protest, "that it is merely a formality. You get results, Gene. Nobody can argue with that. I simply want to be confident in my own mind that nobody even further up the ladder – or lower down -" another glance at Keats - "is able to take it upon themselves to use – might we call it 'gaps in the paperwork'? - to interfere with the running of your department in the future. I want to help you turn your leaky boat into a rock-solid, unassailable ship of the line."

He sat down opposite Gene, smiling. "You see, there's no reason for us to lock horns over this. The whole affair will be swift, painless, and involve a minimum of disruption to your day to day activities. I've been watching you for a long time, Gene, and I have to say I like what I see. There are positions opening up upstairs, you know. Big opportunities for a man of passion and integrity like yourself."

By the time Gene had the chance to get a word in, it took a moment for him to realise that the man had actually stopped talking. "Right. Well. Thank you, sir," he replied, with gruff neutrality. "You can be sure I'll give you my full cooperation."

The expression on Callaghan's face was one of unflattering surprise, but he corrected it swiftly, beaming at Gene in a fatherly way, as though he'd known he was a good boy all along.

"On one condition," Gene added.

Callaghan's smile faltered a little. "Oh? And that is?" He didn't seem to take it much amiss that a subordinate was giving him ultimatums.

Gene pointed at Keats, still lurking sulkily over by the filing cabinet. "I want DI Keats to manage the investigation."

Callaghan's eyebrows rose. "Really? You surprise me. I'm not sure I can allow that, Gene. Not after the, er – fiasco that resulted last time."

Keats spoke for the first time in an uncharacteristically long while. "I'm sorry, sir. If you'll give me another chance, I won't disappoint you."

"Jim, Jim...don't be so formal. My name is still Nick," Callaghan smiled. "And listen – I don't blame you. You were under a great deal of pressure." He turned back to Gene. "Tragic, when a promising young officer suffers such a dreadful psychological setback. I had to send the poor fellow on a little holiday to recover his strength. Nervous breakdown, don't you know." He shook his head sadly. "Strange, almost wild behaviour – paranoid delusions – delusions of grandeur, too, I shouldn't wonder. Believing all sorts of extraordinary things...really, I don't know if it's a good idea to send him back to work so soon." He spared Keats another kind, paternal glance. "I would never forgive myself if you suffered another such setback, Jim. Why, this time you might not recover at all." His tone was light, his smile very wide.

Keats said, quietly, "I'm better now."

"An unfortunate situation," Callaghan declared, as though he hadn't spoken. "Became a little too attached, didn't you, Jim? Lost your objectivity somewhat, perhaps? Easily done."

"That won't happen this time."

"Why, Jim? Because Alex Drake is no longer here?"

Gene started. Callaghan's friendly blue eyes never left Keats' pale, harried face. Keats himself was staring back, mouth open but nothing coming out, apparently at a loss. Gene decided enough was enough. He cut in, speaking a little more loudly than necessary, forcing Callaghan to look at him.

"I've got to insist, sir. I trust DI Keats to carry out his duties as befits the situation. Besides, I'm used to the way he operates. I'll find it easier to work with him than a new officer."

Callaghan chuckled, the laughter lines around his eyes deepening. "Better the devil you know, eh, Gene?"

"Something like that, sir."

Keats was licking his lips, switching his gaze between Gene and Callaghan. After a moment, Callaghan smiled. "All right. If you want him, you can have him, with my blessing." His gaze sharpened as he looked at Keats, though his tone remained jovial. "I'll be keeping a very close eye on you this time, Jim, d'you hear? I'll expect full, detailed reports. If you do well, we can see about restoring your previous rank. And then – who knows?" He got up to clap Keats on the back. "In my department, the sky's the limit. You disappointed me before, my boy, but I'm all for letting you have your shot at redemption. See you don't waste it."

"I won't let you down, Nick," Keats said, shaking his boss's proffered hand. But it was Gene's narrow gaze he met as he added, "thank you."


	3. Interlude: Take Heed Lest He Fall

**3: Interlude: Take Heed Lest He Fall**

_Here lies one whose name was writ in water._

J Keats

_Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall_

Bible, _1 Corinthians x. 12._

_**Previously on Neutral Men:**_

"I won't let you down, Nick," Keats said, shaking his boss's proffered hand. But it was Gene's narrow gaze he met as he added, "thank you."

xxxxx

Daniel Connor liked to think of himself as a subtle, intelligent man - as indeed he was, Hunt's offensive attitude to him notwithstanding. He knew he wasn't like the others. Sam Tyler, a man who had chosen death, chosen, as Daniel now suspected, this place over the life he could have lived. Had his real life been so terrible, such a failure? Daniel had obtained and read Tyler's journals after the untimely death of Alex Drake, and had found nothing to suggest that his life before the coma-inducing 'accident' had been unsatisfactory. Curious. Interesting.

And now Daniel knew something else: by the simple expedient of listening outside Hunt's office door, he had learned that Alex Drake had been here, fulfilling the same kind of fantastic, twilight experience as Tyler. Where were they both now? No matter; the only important thing was that this world was real, in its way – real enough, at least. And Gene Hunt was at the centre of it, the lynch-pin on which it all turned.

And Keats. How did Keats fit in? Daniel remembered a grainy photograph, a name he'd assumed was a pseudonym to spare the family's shame – 'J Keats' indeed. And yet, that man had walked into CID yesterday, looking so different that Daniel had not at first recognised the barely familiar face. Keats was not like Hunt. He seemed to know things Hunt didn't. He did not, of course, recognise Daniel. Nonetheless, if there was a way out of here, Jim Keats was the key. Jim Keats, and perhaps Sam Tyler.

A violent thud startled him out of his thoughts.

"Oi! Connor! Are you masturbating in there, or have you just flushed yourself down the bog?"

Daniel sighed, rested his forehead for a moment against the toilet cubicle's graffitied and gouged wooden door. "No, Guv. Just thinking."

"There's only one thing a man's supposed to think about on the karzy," came the response, "maybe two. Now get out here and do some work for a change."

Daniel flushed the toilet unnecessarily, sighed, and opened the door. Hunt was standing outside, an impatient glare etched on his face like a cave painting on rock. Daniel deliberately ignored him, going to the sink to wash his hands. "What's going on?"

"Another body," was the grim response. "Get moving, we want to be there before plod messes up the crime scene."

Daniel groaned inwardly. Another meaningless, pointless investigation. Either the case wasn't real, or it had been resolved many years ago; what did it matter whether they investigated it or not?

"Are you coming, or what?"

"Maybe I'll just stay here. Catch up on some paperwork."

For a large man, Hunt could move very fast. He had Daniel by the collar and was shoving him against a wall before the last syllable was out of his mouth.

"You are my DI," Hunt growled, "and as such, you will do as you're bloody well told. You might think you're too good for this station, you might ponce about with your procedures and your paperclips, but believe me, when you're in my kingdom my word is law. Understand?"

Daniel tried to force himself to nod when all he wanted to do was spit in the big bastard's face. He was spared the decision when the bathroom door abruptly opened, revealing Jim Keats standing in the doorway. He was holding a small toiletries bag in one hand and what appeared to be a flannel in the other. Did the man actually _live_ in the station?

"Morning, Gene. Looks like you're starting early today, mate."

"I suppose you want me to put him down, Jimbo?"

"Would you do it if I asked you nicely?" Sublimely uninterested, Keats made his way to the bank of sinks, withdrew a toothbrush and paste from his bag, and proceeded to clean his teeth. "Don't worry," he told the still-pinioned Daniel, after spitting, "it's all going in my report."

Daniel gurgled an objection, meeting Keats' eyes in the mirror. It triggered a more desirable response.

"All right, that's enough." Keats put his toiletries down and strode over to stand almost as close to Daniel as Hunt was. "Let him go now. I mean it."

"And I mean it when I say 'piss off, Jimbo'."

"My boss is going to be checking up on me," Keats replied, looking annoyed for the first time. "If you won't answer to me, you'll have to answer to him. Put DI Connor down – now. Please."

"When he's apologised," Hunt growled, though he did loosen his grip slightly, allowing Daniel to gasp,

"For what?"

"For being a smartarsed little nancy boy. For your unsightly, sulky mug. For daring to come into my station and act like you own the place."

"You're a bloody menace, you are," Keats informed Gene. "Do you have no subtlety at all? You're like a big, overgrown five-year-old. Don't like somebody, so you punch them in the face. And nobody's allowed to play with your toys but you. Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'people skills?'"

Hunt looked into Daniel's eyes, giving Daniel the uncomfortable sensation that the man was X-raying his very soul. He did, however, let go.

"I'd say my people skills were excellent," he told Keats. "They get the job done. Unlike you two tosspots, standing around when there's villains to be caught. Come on, both of you. Regent's Canal. Are you real coppers or aren't you? Don't bother to answer that, Jimbo – I already know you're not."

He left, banging the bathroom door behind him, apparently in no doubt that his orders would be obeyed.

Daniel turned on Keats. "Fat lot of help you were!"

"He doesn't listen to me," Keats shrugged, packing his toothbrush away neatly in its little bag. "I've given up trying, to be honest with you. I was getting ulcers from the stress."

"What's the point of you, then? Why are you even here, if you're not going to do anything? And why put you in a position to investigate Hunt when he outranks you anyway?"

"Ours is not to reason why," Keats quoted, unconcerned. "It's all going in my report, don't worry. Antagonising Gene Hunt isn't advisable at the moment. In fact, my boss is keen on my forging a 'sound working relationship' with him." He put the phrase in air quotes. "I'm just the messenger, Daniel." He held out his hands, palms up. "Don't shoot me, eh?"

He was smiling, but his eyes were fixed on Daniel's, dark and glittering. It was as if he were waiting for something. After a moment he shrugged and turned away.

Daniel caught his shoulder. "I can help you."

Keats paused, turning back, a half-amused, half-incredulous expression on his face. "You what?"

"Your report on Hunt. I can help. I'm his DI – I have access to all his information, all his paperwork."

"But he doesn't keep any paperwork, does he? That's the point. No respect for proper procedure, that man. Why do you think my superior is so interested in him in the first place?"

Daniel's eyes narrowed. He had overheard Nick Callaghan 's discussion with Hunt, but he wasn't sure yet what to make of it. "All right, but I can get close to him. Find out what you need to know."

Keats was studying him thoughtfully. Daniel tried to look helpful and trustworthy. He all but fluttered his eyelashes.

"Okay." Keats was nodding slowly. "You bring me what you can, yeah? But don't let Hunt catch you at it. He's got a nasty temper."

"I noticed."

Keats nodded again and opened the door.

"Wait," Daniel said. "Don't you want to know what I want in return?"

Keats chuckled. "I'm sure you'll let me know when the time is right, DI Connor. Coming?"

Frowning, Daniel indicated that he'd be along in a minute. Keats left, closing the door quietly. Gene Hunt and Jim Keats - worlds apart, or two sides of the same coin? Who were they? _What_ were they? Daniel splashed water on his face, pausing to gaze at his reflection in the mirror. He noticed the blood at once, diluted pale pink by the water, already coating his upper lip.

"Shit." He grabbed a paper towel and mopped up his nosebleed. Second time this morning. He supposed Hunt's rough handling had triggered a fresh outpouring. As he pinched his nose to halt the bleeding, he became peripherally aware of something reflected in the grimy mirror. A pale shape which hadn't been there before. He turned, startled, and saw nothing. In the mirror, however, it was clearer. A child appeared to be standing behind him. _The_ child – the same one he'd seen three times already in his flat, once in the mirror there, once standing at the end of his bed, once reflected in the sitting room window late at night. A boy, about ten, with blonde hair and large dark-blue eyes. He wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans. His small hands were pressed to his belly as though he had stomach-ache.

Daniel slowly lowered the blood-soaked paper towel. "What do you want?" he demanded. "Who are you?"

The boy made no response. He never did. As Daniel watched, he seemed to fade at the edges, blurring slowly into a background of mouldy white tiles. Gone.

Christ. What the hell _was _this place?

xxx

"Where've you two been?" Hunt demanded suspiciously, when Daniel, riding shotgun in Keats' car (which he had initially assumed to be the Merc parked outside the station – he had been surprised to discover otherwise) finally arrived at Regent's Canal. "I can see I'm going to have to be careful about leaving the pair of you alone in the gent's. Have fun comparing willies, did you?"

"DI Connor and I were discussing my report," Keats said, evenly.

"Yes – your report on tiny todgers."

"Of which you're the star, Gene," came the dry response.

Daniel sighed; it was like watching a tennis match.

"I merely asked DI Connor if he wanted to make a formal complaint against you," Keats went on.

"What for? Twat-baiting?" Advantage Hunt, again.

"Let's just get on with the job, shall we?"

Daniel wasn't sure if Keats had lost that round, or won it by virtue of demonstrating some vestige of adult behaviour. Hunt glared for a moment, lips pursed, then nodded tersely and gestured. The canal was a stormy grey today, reflecting the dark, rain-threatening clouds above. It was a suitable backdrop for a gruesome centrepiece: the promised corpse, which, covered with a dampened blanket, lay alongside the water. The hidden form was was oddly small. Daniel, curious despite himself, went closer. Keats, however, hung back, looking unhappy.

"Not squeamish, are you?" Daniel teased him, grinning.

"No," muttered Keats. "Can we move it a bit farther away from the water though, please?"

"_He_," Hunt snapped. "Not it, he. Just a little lad, and some bastard stuck a knife in his guts and drowned him like a rat to make sure he was dead. We're dealing with a child killer."

Daniel's stomach lurched. Suddenly he didn't want to look at the face under the blanket. But Keats was kneeling beside the body, his gaze firmly averted from the canal, peeling back the covering. And Daniel realised he'd known all along what he was going to see. It was the boy from his flat, the boy from the station, the silent, staring ghost which had haunted Daniel's dreams ever since he arrived here. The blonde hair was soaked and filthy with mud and weeds; the blue eyes were fixedly open, gazing at nothing; the mouth too was open, gasping for air he would never need again. Daniel swallowed hard.

"He was alive when he was dumped into the water," Hunt said, brusquely. "Trying to breathe as the canal closed over his head. Fighting for his life."

Keats flinched. It was a small enough movement that Daniel didn't think Hunt had even noticed it.

"Guv?" The young blonde DC – Arnie Carter by name – was trying to attract Gene's attention. "Found something, Guv. Might be the knife the killer used."

"Right." Hunt marched off. Keats was still examining the corpse.

"Do we know -" Daniel's mouth was dry. He had to stop and start again. "Do we know the victim's identity?"

"Don't ask me, this is the first I've heard of the case." Keats got up, dusting off his hands. His shoulders were rigid with tension. "Nobody tells me anything these days. Why, have you seen him before?"

Daniel let out a breath. "No. No, of course not."

Hunt was still conversing with punk-haired Carter when Daniel slid out from under the spell of Keats' knowing half-smile.

"Is it the murder weapon?"

"Looks like it." Hunt was bagging up the item. It was a novelty paper knife, shaped like a miniature sword, the handle quite beautifully wrought, sculpted in the form of a Templar knight. A lovely thing. A nice gift. Something to keep on your mantlepiece while you tore letters open impatiently with your fingers. Daniel stared at it, feeling as though his insides were turning to water.

"Some kind of human sacrifice, d'you think?" Keats had slithered up, eyeing the weapon with an almost unseemly interest. "Looks like something from a black magic ritual to me."

"You'd know, Jimbo. You probably spend your Saturday nights dancing nude in graveyards, with the light of the silvery moon glinting on your scrawny arse."

Keats was unmoved. "Everyone's arse is scrawny compared to yours, Gene."

Hunt's face was carved in stone. Angry stone. "If you've got nothing useful to contribute to this investigation, Inspector, then bugger off back to your filofax and let us real coppers do our jobs."

"It's not a ritual sacrifice," Connor snapped at Keats, tired of the absurd game. "This is a bloody paperknife. It's for opening letters, not abdomens."

"But there's the rub," Keats smiled. "There's the _point_, in fact. It _is _bloody, isn't it?" Daniel had never before seen anyone smile and snarl simultaneously. The effect was quite alarming. He backed away a step, his nerves stretched taught, and stumbled on the uneven ground. Keats reached out to steady him. Daniel could feel the heat of his fingers even through the thickness of his own winter coat.

"If you two are going to start fondling each other again, do it in private," Hunt growled. "We've learned all we can here. Leave the rest to plod and the pathologist."

And that, apparently, was what passed for a detailed crime scene investigation in this, Hunt's kingdom. Daniel certainly wasn't going to argue. He needed an opportunity to slip off, to think – perhaps to ask DI Keats a few well-phrased questions. He was debating how odd it would look (and the sort of homoerotic jokes Hunt might make) if he asked for a word in private when a unique opportunity arose by itself.

Keats and Hunt were walking together along the canal path, Keats keeping very firmly on the land side. There was the corpse, now ready for removal to whatever passed for a forensic lab here. Hunt veered away to give it a wider birth. Keats, lost in thought, didn't. They collided, and Keats, who seemed very much on edge, shoved angrily back, apparently under the impression that Gene had walked into him on purpose.

"Show some bloody respect!" Hunt hissed, nodding at the body.

"Get out of my way!" Keats hissed right back. Hunt's face reddened, his jaw clenched, and his lips compressed together so tightly they appeared in danger of amalgamating. He grabbed Keats by the lapel and swung him around.

It was then that something grotesque happened. Keats, pulled off-balance, stumbled sideways and tripped over the corpse. The impact didn't pull the blanket loose, which relieved Daniel, but Keats was not so fortunate. With a startling shriek he lurched forwards and fell headlong into the dirty grey canal.

Daniel looked at Hunt, expecting to see mockery and derision in his face. Hunt was not laughing, however; he looked disgusted. Keats was now flailing about in the canal like a toddler in need of water-wings, yelling for help. He seemed utterly unable to swim and looked absolutely terrified. As they watched, he went under with a gurgling howl.

"Shouldn't we pull him out?" Daniel wondered aloud.

Hunt didn't answer. He looked tense; almost – but not quite – guilty. Not pleased with himself, at any rate, nor the slightest bit entertained, which was surprising to Daniel.

It was Arnie Carter who reacted quickest. He shrugged off his coat and jacket, kicked off his shoes, and plunged into the chilly-looking water. Daniel watched as the young man hauled a now-limp and waterlogged Keats to the canalside and tried to push him up onto the muddy bank.

Hunt took half a step forward; it was hard to tell from the look on his face whether he intended to lend a hand or shove Keats back in. Daniel moved faster, reaching down to grab Keats by the arms. Between them, he and Carter pulled and pushed the soggy DI to safety.

Physically unharmed, but bedraggled and shivering, Keats lay curled up in the mud, unresponsive to both Carter's anxious prodding and Daniel's attempts at basic first aid. He reacted, however, when Hunt decided that the way forward was to nudge Keats in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. At that, Keats looked up at him with a kind of wide-eyed, stricken disbelief, like a kitten somebody had unexpectedly dropped in the bath.

"Bastard," he managed, through chattering teeth.

"Sorry." Hunt sounded almost as if it meant it. "Look, it's not my fault you're so bloody ungainly."

"Piss off," Keats hissed, curling into himself even more. He seemed to be in a sort of angry shock. And Daniel knew it was time to make his move.

"Let me take you home," he said, crouching over Keats in what he hoped was an unthreatening way, taking him gently by the arm.

He earned a derisive snort. "Yeah. Like you can."

Daniel hid his excitement at that hint as best he could, licking his lips. "All right, come back to my flat. I've got some dry clothes you can change into."

"He only fell in the bloody canal!" Hunt snapped. "We've got a case here."

"That water's freezing. He might get pneumonia. Just give us an hour."

Carter was helping a slowly-uncoiling Keats to his feet. Miraculously, his glasses had stayed on, though they were steaming up.

"Fine," Hunt growled. As they headed for the car, he called after them, "and once you've got his kit off, Danny-boy, don't let him get overexcited and forget the rubber."

Daniel had nothing to say to that; he found it convenient instead to respond with an appropriate gesture, without even breaking stride.

"Exactly!" Hunt roared, in delight. "_Up yours!"_

xxxx

Coming in part 4 - 'The Devil Wears You Down': Jim's day goes from bad to worse when Nick returns expecting a report. Gene is both predictably violent, and surprisingly gentle.


	4. The Devil Wears Your Patience

**Part 4: The Devil Wears Your Patience**

_**I: God and Mammon**_

_No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon._

Matthew vi, v. 24

Jim was smoking. His grandfather hadn't approved of it, his few steady romantic partners hadn't approved of it, and his doctor certainly hadn't approved of it, but the beautiful thing was that here, in the eighties, nobody gave a damn. He could smoke as much as he liked. When he'd emerged from Daniel Connor's bathroom, cleansed of canal water and dressed in Connor's clothes, his immediate action had been to light up a cigarette.

"Isn't that bad for your health?" Connor had asked.

"Trust me," Jim had said, offering him one, "don't worry about it."

He had not missed the light in Connor's eyes. The poor sod thought that Jim was his saviour, that he was going home if only he could figure all this out once and for all. But then, they all thought that, didn't they? The trouble was, Jim reflected as he sat on the edge of his desk, blowing out a thick, satisfying cloud of smoke, that people didn't really believe they could die. They spent their lives afraid of death as though it were a horror film on the television, something which upset them when they came into contact with it, but which invariably sank onto the back burners of their consciousness when that contact was over. Something fictional. _Other_ people died - people on the news, which was still the telly and therefore Not. Quite. Real. TV cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, all dying oh so heroically in pools of tomato ketchup. When somebody close to you died, for a moment that self-protective illusion was breached, and you truly touched the abyss – but only for a moment, not long enough for the living human mind to truly comprehend.

Daniel Connor was still alive, dripping his brains out of his ears on a hospital ward somewhere. Thing was – poor Daniel! – he had nothing to go back to. Whatever was left of his brain was here, in the lovely cheesy eighties. All that remained in his hospital bed in 2010 was a drooling husk. Nobody in their right mind would want to go back to that, but Daniel didn't know. Poor things, they never knew; they couldn't accept it. Jim thought about Alex Drake, sighed, and lit up another smoke.

If people didn't really believe in death, what happened when they died? The first thing was always a rejection of it, no matter how clued-in you were. And Jim had been very clued-in. He had known immediately – almost immediately. No deals for a promised homecoming. He'd had nothing to go back to, either, and he'd known that, right from the word go. Nothing can come of nothing, and nothing was exactly what he had left himself with.

He remembered icy water all around him, first insidious, creeping, then surging in when he'd finally been desperate enough to open his mouth to take a breath. The dirty, cold, polluted water of the dirty, cold, polluted north. Jim hated the north almost as much as he hated water; hated it passionately. He never wanted to go there again. Their water had been inside him, though, tainting and polluting _him_. He was beginning to think he would never get it out; these days, when displeasing Nick meant that Jim's illusion of continued life had begun to break down, he was even bleeding the stuff.

Taking another deep drag on his smoke, he reflected on Daniel Connor's remark when he had slumped on the sofa in Connor's sitting room, accepting a cup of hot sweet tea and trying not to think about the last time he'd been inside this flat. "Did he know?" Connor had asked...

"Did who know what?" Jim wasn't in the mood for small talk – he could still taste the canal water in his throat – but he tried. It was his nature to try, his job. When he'd looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, wearing Connor's too-short trousers and a sweater which left his wrists bare (risky, that; should he avoid letting Connor see his 'broken' watch?) he'd been reminded of a schoolboy wearing last term's outgrown uniform. Fine; try it that way. He'd washed his hair, removing the controlling gel, letting it hang over his forehead. The floppy fringe took years off him, he thought, making his eyes big and puppylike as he took off his glasses and put them in his pocket. That haplessness, enhanced with a bashful smile, had worked wonders on the last lot, especially Alex, Shaz and sometimes – funnily enough – Ray. He doubted it would work on Connor, but he would give it a go. He didn't feel up to a lot else, frankly.

"Hunt," Connor was saying impatiently. "Did he know you have a phobia about water?"

Jim was silent for a moment, sipping his tea. "I doubt it," he said. "I don't go around handing that man my Achilles' heels."

Connor looked amused. "How many have you got?"

Just the one, really, Jim thought. But he didn't say anything.

"Can I ask you something?" Connor's face was carefully set to neutral, but Jim could see the burning need – greed? – behind his eyes. Seeing into people's souls was not a gift Jim relished any more. The corruption was interesting, if inevitable; all those dirty little thoughts eroding what was left of the good, like water over rocks. There were other things, though. Things he'd come to realise he didn't actually want to know. Nick's gifts, he had discovered, invariably had a downside. Often enough, they were _all_ downside.

"Of course, Daniel," he said now, with a friendly nod. "You can ask me anything you like. Can't promise to answer, though."

Connor was still smiling fixedly. It was getting a bit – weird. "Who are you?" he said. "Really?"

Oh dear. It had taken Alex longer to ask that question; perhaps Jim was losing his mojo. Screw it, he didn't care any more. He couldn't answer, however. Not properly, not completely. Besides, he had the strange and uncomfortable feeling that Daniel already knew – suspected, at least – and that he would do anything at all to find out the truth. Jim wondered if he'd end up strapped to a bed and injected with sodium pentothal, like in the spy films.

He laughed the question off. "What is this? Are we dating? You want to know the 'real me'? I'm a fan of Elvis Costello, if that helps."

Connor's smile widened slightly. "I already know the real you, Jim."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes, I do. I saw your picture in the paper."

"Really?"

"I wasn't certain at first, but seeing you like this, I'm absolutely sure. Surprising how glasses and a different hairstyle can change the way somebody looks, isn't it?"

Jim sipped his tea noncommittally.

"What it is you think you see?"

The reply was calm, friendly, almost. "I see someone who is going to make a really big mistake, about -" he made a show of looking at his watch, "twenty-two years from now."

Play it steady, play it safe. "Yeah? That's a very long-term prediction. I don't suppose you know who's going to win the 12.15 at Chepstow?" he chuckled.

"How did you get here, Jim? Do you remember?"

"You drove me here. I got a soaking, Daniel, not a bang on the head. What's all this about? Are you feeling all right? You seem a bit – confused. I think you've got me mistaken for somebody else."

Nick had to have known that Connor would recognise him. Was this a test, or a set-up?

"Not here, in this flat. How did you get _here_, to this world?"

Jim thought his own expression of amused disbelief was pretty realistic. "Um, well, you see, Daniel, when a man and a woman love each other very much, they get certain urges…" he tailed off, laughing awkwardly, aware it was the sort of sarcastic crack Gene Hunt himself might have made.

Connor's smile had long since left his eyes. "You and Hunt," he said. "And Callaghan, too – I don't know how he fits in yet. But you and Hunt are the key to this. Am I supposed to choose a side?" He leaned closer, his pale eyes fixing on Jim's dark ones. "Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. I have to go home, Jim. I can't stay here. I don't belong here. I'm not like the others – I won't learn to fit in, learn to love this place. I'm different, and you know I am. I know what this is – I just don't how it works yet. Help me, and I'll help you."

"Help me to what?" Jim pretended nonchalance, swigging down the rest of his tea.

"To finish Gene Hunt," Connor replied.

xxx

A few years ago – before the memory of ice-water filling his lungs had blasted away all his other dreams – Jim had experienced a strange and mystifying nightmare. He had been standing in a church, and he had known (in his dream) that he was dead. The church was very beautiful. It had reminded him of the one his grandmother had taken him to as a child – tall stained glass windows, filtering the light of day in beautiful, colourful patterns, reflecting on his innocent young face as he knelt before the altar. The carvings had fascinated him – especially the pulpit, with its depiction of a magnificent eagle. He wondered if the priest, standing there so grave and serious, had ever imagined that he was flying up to heaven on the eagle's back.

The world had soured when Grandma had died, but Jim remembered the church all his life, and a few months before his thirtieth birthday he had dreamed of it. He was alone in the church at night time; the images in the stained glass windows seemed almost to be alive, watching him with anxious eyes. Did they want him to succeed, or fail? He knew – in the way we always seem to know the truth, in our dreams – that this was a test.

"Show me, then," he'd said into the silence, and a chill wind seemed to blow through him. When it had passed, he looked around again and found that the layout of the church had changed. He was standing in the aisle, at the very centre of the cruciform, and at each end of the transept – to his left and right – stood an unfamiliar door.

First, he turned to his left. The door there was made of ancient, decaying wood. As he moved closer he could see the rusty bolts, the marks of woodworm; the thing was hanging off its hinges, and through the cracks he could see flames. An unearthly shriek echoed from whatever lay beyond that rotting, burning door and he stumbled away, horrified, returning to the centre of the church.

Hastily, he turned right. The door there was beautiful: it gleamed as though made from pure gold. As he crept towards it he could hear singing, pure soprano voices. His heart soared with them, and he knew that this was the right choice, the only choice. Grasping the shining handle, he turned it and walked through…

...and fell straight into Hell.

Then he had woken up, shaking and sweating.

The dream plagued him for three nights. The second time, he turned again towards the golden door, seduced by the heavenly voices, and again found fire and brimstone on the other side. On the third night he was ready, and turned without hesitation to the rotting wooden door on his left. The handle was hot; it blistered the palm of his hand as he touched it, but he persevered, knowing at last that he had chosen correctly. The door opened…

What was inside the dream-door, Jim was never to know; his flatmate arrived noisily home and startled him into frustrated wakefulness. A few months later, however, when two good people died because of Jim Keats and his really big mistake, he knew he would have the opportunity to found out for real what lay behind those tantalising doors.

Now all he had to do was choose.

Xxxx

_**II: Iron Sharpeth Iron**_

_There's nothing that cleanses your soul like getting the hell kicked out of you._

Woody Hayes

Lost as he was in thoughts of the past – or was it the future? – Jim was startled by the knock on his office door. Not Gene; he never bothered with the standard social niceties. Not Carter; it was too authoritative. Connor?

Nick.

"Good morning, Jim. I hear you've had a bit of a mishap, my boy."

All fatherly concern and warm smiles. Jim tried hard not to respond to it.

"I had a small accident, yes."

"An accident? It's my understanding that DCI Hunt pushed you into Regent's Canal." Nick closed the office door behind him and paced the tiny room, picking up items from Jim's desk and examining them – pencils, notebooks, an empty cup.

Jim remained silent, smoking. After a moment he offered a cigarette to Nick, who shook his head with a small smile. "I must take care of my health. I've had a touch of bronchitis, you know."

"Good thing your department is nice and warm, then."

Nick chuckled appreciatively. "Quite. I'm glad to see that your experience this morning hasn't damaged your sense of humour, such as it is. Still – it was cruel of him, wasn't it? To take advantage of your deepest fear like that. Can you really trust a man like that, Jim?"

Yes indeed. What kind of man would make somebody relive their worst memory over and over and over again? Jim released a last, long plume of smoke and calmly put out the still-glowing tip of the cigarette – on his own palm.

"You've been talking to DI Connor, Nick."

"He seemed concerned about your welfare. He's a promising young man, that one. I take it you have your eye on him, eh?"

"I'm doing my best."

"Then you'll be happy to share your report with me."

"As yet, sir, I don't have much to say."

Nick tutted. "Not good enough, my boy."

"I've only just got here."

"You were quicker off the mark with Alex Drake."

Jim did best to ignore the needling. "This situation is not the same. It's Hunt we're after, isn't it? Connor would be a bonus. The bigger the tree, the stronger and thicker the roots. It's going to take a long time to dig Hunt out. But I'll get there – believe me. I've got a big spade," he added, flippantly. Perhaps Gene was rubbing off on him.

Nick was shaking his head sadly. "I wish I had perfect faith in you, Jim, but I worry about you, I really do. I'm not sure you're really the man for this job. I think Hunt might be getting to you. Corrupting you."

"No."

"No?" Nick took a cigarette from the pack on the desk, placed the filter end gently in Jim's mouth, and lit the other. Jim inhaled automatically, the smoke burning the chill out of his lungs. "Then prove it. Give me something. Anything. I hesitate to phrase it as 'demonstrating your loyalty' – that's such a cliché, don't you think? Let's just say that I would appreciate a little token to show that _you_ appreciate everything I've tried to do for you."

Their eyes locked as the silence following this perverse statement deepened. This time, Jim almost jumped out of his skin when somebody tapped on the door.

"What?" he snapped, eyes never leaving Nick's calmly smiling face.

Arnie Carter's smile, by contrast, was both nervous and apologetic. "The Guv wants to see you, sir. The Boss is there too."

"They'll have a job fitting in here," Nick quipped jovially, glancing around Jim's tiny office. "Let's take the mountain to Mohammed, shall we?"

Carter's hesitancy was explained in an instant by the atmosphere in CID. It resembled the sudden, dusty stillness of a saloon at High Noon, when the sheriff strides in to confront the local cattle-rustlers. Gene's officers weren't exactly hiding under their desks, but they were alert, expectant, and trying to pretend they weren't watching.

Right on cue, Gene opened his office door. He was holding a manilla folder in one hand.

"Looking for this?" he barked.

Jim glanced behind him; who was Gene talking to?

"You snivelling, sneaky, treacherous little scumbag." Question answered. The manilla folder was under Jim's nose now, being waved menacingly in his face. "If you don't want people to read the lying shite you're writing about them, Jimbo, don't leave your paperwork about where any bugger can pick it up!"

Gene threw the folder on the floor. Papers spilled out. Jim stared at it, then at Gene, whose eyes fractionally narrowed, his head tilting marginally forward, nodding towards the file.

Jim bent down slowly and picked it up, stuffing the pages back inside. "Don't know what you're talking about, Gene," he said, honestly.

Two people were watching the altercation with particular interest. Nick Callaghan hadn't taken his eyes off the folder since Gene started waving it around. Daniel Connor, standing in the doorway to Gene's office, was switching his attention rapidly between Jim and Hunt, like a spectator at Wimbledon.

"I knew it," Gene went on, savagely. "I give you one bloody chance to act like a decent human being, and you go grassing me up over some pointless procedural bollocks. Begging your pardon, sir," he added roughly, to Nick, who smiled and said,

"I'm sure DI Keats is only doing his job, Gene."

"Does his job involve skulking about trying to get me the sack?" Gene grabbed Jim by the lapel of his coat and dragged him so close that their noses touched. Jim could feel spittle hitting his face as Gene launched into another tirade. "I thought we had an understanding, you lousy, treacherous, ungrateful, United-supporting..."

Jim was not in the mood to be handled – nor to be accused of supporting a northern football team. "Get off me! I'm warning you, Hunt..."

"You're warning me? Who the bloody hell do you think you're talking to, Inspector?"

"Now, now, Gene..." murmured Nick Callaghan.

For answer, Gene drew back a meaty fist and punched Jim in the stomach. Hard. Jim doubled up, startled by the force of the blow.

"Really, Gene, I must insist!" Nick placed a soothing hand on Gene's chest as Jim slumped to the floor, gasping. "I can't allow you to treat my officers like this. Go into your office, have a drink and calm down. I doubt that DI Keats will want to make a formal complaint?"

Jim, fed up with the pair of them, ignored that remark. Nick patted him on the shoulder, then left without bothering to help him up.

"What are you lot looking at?" Gene barked at his officers. "Show's over. Get back to work. You - Peroxide Hedgehog!" He pointed at spiky-haired Carter. "Where's that crime scene report?" And turning to stare down at Jim, "see, Jimbo – I do know how to read. You should've realised that before you left your girly folders around." He stomped off to his office, turning back to say, "well? Do you not want a drink?"

Jim looked at Connor, hovering by his own desk now. He climbed slowly to his feet, waving off the belated assistance of DC Carter.

"My office," he told Gene.

Gene shrugged. "Fine. I'll bring a picnic." He collected his bottle of Scotch and a glass, and followed Jim amiably enough as his team returned slowly to their work. DI Connor, however, never took his eyes off the pair of them as Jim held the door open politely – some might have interpreted it as 'threateningly' - for his superior.

In his office, Jim checked for lurking Assistant Commissioners before turning on Gene. "I'm not your public punchbag, Hunt!"

"If you hadn't noticed, Jimbo, I saved your warty backside in there. Old Nicky Callaghan won't suspect you of letting the side down any more, will he?"

"You only knew what to do because I warned you he was onto us," Jim sulked. "But how did you know when to set it up?"

"Connor told me Callaghan was here with the intention of ripping you a new, even wider bumhole. Maybe he's not a completely useless bastard, after all."

Connor. What was he playing at?

"All right," Jim conceded, "you did it for my benefit. How magnanimous. But did you have to enjoy it? There was no need to hit me as hard as you did. You undermined my authority over the other officers."

"Oh dear. I'm so very sorry. I didn't realise your guts and your authority were made of glass, you whiny streak of piss."

"Blimey, could you be any more childish? Just leave me alone. I've had enough of being shoved around today."

"Be sure to write and tell your mum on me."

That was it. Abandoning all attempts at self-control, Jim aimed a wild punch at Hunt's face. It connected awkwardly and not very powerfully – there wasn't room to swing a cat in Jim's office, let along a fist.

Gene was unimpressed. He grabbed Jim's arm and twisted, holding it behind his back as he shoved Jim face-downward onto his own desk. Jim could feel his glasses cutting into his cheek as his face was mashed mercilessly against the cheap, splintered wood. He struggled, kicking out, but he was tired and Hunt was strong and clearly well-practised at this, holding him firmly.

"Why did you bother?" Gene asked, sounding almost friendly. Or perhaps that was a misconception due to oxygen deprivation setting in - with his free hand Gene had taken hold of Jim's tie and was pulling on it like a puppy with a tug-toy, cheerfully throttling his victim.

"..off me..." Jim managed, "...fat bastard."

"Don't be rude to the bloke who's got your head in a noose, Jimbo."

"...'ck off..." Jim croaked.

"Say I've won."

"Ghwa...?"

"Say, 'you've won, Gene, because you're the better man.'"

He loosened his hold slightly. Jim gasped for air, shook his head.

"Say it," Gene cajoled. He planted a knee in the small of Jim's back and jerked him backwards, causing considerable pain.

"You won!" Jim snarled furiously, eyes watering.

"'Because you're the better man.'"

His vision beginning to grey out, Jim said it.

The tie had been loosened, but Gene's knee remained in his back, Jim's arm still twisted up behind him, his face still pressed into the desk. His teeth were cutting into his lower lip.

"Now," went on Gene, pleasantly, "say, 'I'm a pencil-pushing four-eyes who gets erotically aroused by filofaxes, and I've never satisfied a woman.'"

Fully oxygenated once more, Jim had recovered his self-respect. "I'm not saying that, you mad git!"

"Say it," Gene insisted, manipulating Jim's body with the skill of a very violent chiropractor. The pain was blinding; after a few moments Jim ground out, "I'm a...a pencil-pushing four-eyes who..."

"'gets erotically aroused by filofaxes...'" Gene encouraged, like a parent prompting their toddler at the school play.

His performance apparently satisfactory, Gene finally let Jim up.

"Well, that concludes our bit of business, I think, DI Keats. Here's your consolation prize." He poured a measure of whisky into one of the cylindrical compartments of Jim's red plastic desk-tidy, nodded briskly, and left. Jim, growling to himself, removed his newly Scotch-flavoured pencils and poured the whisky into a cup before drinking it off. There was a smarting sensation as the liquid ran over his injured lip. Frowning, Jim touched his fingers wonderingly to the cut – which was rapidly welling up with rich, red blood.

Xxx

Coming in Part 5: reflections on the future. A videotape. Sam Tyler.


	5. Sowing the Wind

**Part V: Sowing the Wind**

_But you be strong and do not lose courage, for there is reward for your work. _ _Chronicles 15:7_

_Not again_, Jim thought, when the tap came at his office door. He had taken off his ragged coat and folded it up on his desk, resting his aching head on it as a prelude to trying to sleep. It was almost eight in the evening: the station was mostly empty, though Jim knew that Hunt was still rattling around somewhere. It wasn't Hunt knocking on his door, though.

It was something worse.

Grey hair and gentle smile appeared around the peeling-painted frame. "Ah, you're still here, my boy. Good."

"Where else would I be?" Jim eyed his superior blandly for a moment, then reached into his coat and took out a hipflask he'd picked from Gene's pocket while Hunt had been menacing him earlier.

Nick Callaghan shook his head sadly. "Is that really the answer, Jim?"

Jim looked down at the flash in his hand, shrugged, unscrewed it, took a long swallow without ever taking his eyes from the other man. Then he sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his face wearily with a pale hand.

"It's _an _answer," he replied.

"I have a better one." Callaghan held up a small, rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

Jim made a valiant attempt to look blithely uninterested, searching his pockets for cigarettes. He lit one and sat back in his chair, inhaling deeply, focussing intently on the experience, like a man having a final smoke before facing the firing squad.

Nick Callaghan was shaking his head again. "Gene Hunt is no role model for an impressionable young man."

Jim snorted. "Role model? A teenager in a man's clothes? And you think I'm some sort of blank slate, to be seduced by fags and booze? Come on. You know what I was – you think _this_ -" he held up the hipflask, "is anything? It's like drinking pop, it doesn't even work. What I need is to stay awake."

Yes, he was sick of it. sick of being pushed around by one man who couldn't understand and another who liked to pretend he didn't. It was all so frustrating, so - soul-destroying.

Callaghan slid onto the hard chair opposite Jim, managing to look graceful as he wedged himself into the inadequate space. "Yes, Jim – that's what you always needed, isn't it? And look where it got you. Didn't your mother teach you the risks of getting what you wish for?" The smile became cruel for the briefest moment as Jim's fingers clenched hard around the flask. "No, of course she didn't. She didn't teach you very much of anything. Nor did your father. Do you remember why?"

Jim stared at the desk, didn't say anything.

"Because they didn't love you." Callaghan's mock-sympathy was harder to swallow than the too-familiar words. "They didn't want you. Isn't it amazing? Of all the motivations, all the traumas life has to offer, all the thoughts and actions of others that can leave us bitter and alone – yours, Jim, is the most banal. Your parents didn't love you and so you hate the world. And you consider yourself better, more mature, more experienced in the real world than Gene Hunt. In your way, my boy, you are even more of a pretender than he."

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, took a final drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out hard. "Is this going anywhere, Nick? Because I have paperwork to do."

"Yes." Callaghan nodded. "You always do."

"And incidentally," Jim went on, rising to his feet to show his guest out, "my parents," he spat the word, "had nothing to do with the choices I made. It was me. All of it. Just me."

"You place yourself at the centre of your own little universe, as always," Callaghan murmured. "Every sparrow that falls is a metaphor for your own state of being. How strange and self-centred you all are. And you think yourself different to Hunt, in opposition to him – why, my boy, you and he are two sides of the same coin."

"And you like to play those sides against each other."

"Don't you?" Callaghan's eyes sparkled with merriment as he got to his feet. The wrapped package he left on Jim's desk, tapping it lightly, making the paper crackle. "This is for you. Let us call it a downpayment on your ultimate reward. You're doing well, my boy – Hunt is clearly becoming intimidated by your presence here. His guard is up in the wrong direction. Perfect. Keep up the good work."

Jim touched the package with hesitant fingers. "What is this?"

"Sweet dreams," Callaghan smiled, and closed the door behind him.

xxxxx

When Nick was gone, Jim checked the corridor outside for other unwelcome interlopers, then slunk back into his office, locked the door, turned up the fire, poured a large measure of Gene's whisky into a teacup, and opened the package. Inside – as he had known there would be – was a Betamax video cassette tape. On the label was written,

_DS James Keats, 2005_

Jim turned the tape over, looking for any other clue to its contents. There was none. He swallowed whisky before loading the tape into the top of the VCR and flicking 'play'.

A face appeared on the screen, in extreme closeup; Jim sat back, startled, never having been at such close quarters with his own nostrils before. The camera pulled back to a more appropriate distance, and Jim settled himself, lighting another cigarette, squinting through the smoke at the screen.

Unlike DI Keats of D&C, DS Keats had a floppy fringe, an unshaven jaw, and dark circles under his eyes which were far more noticeable due to the lack of spectacles. None of that mattered, though, in comparison to the expression in those eyes. They were the most different thing, the most startling contrast between the man on the tape and the man smoking in the chair. DS Keats looked so very much younger, and yet there was virtually no difference between their physical ages. A year or so, perhaps.

In real terms, Jim felt as though he'd lived a thousand lives and deaths between then and now. And that feeling was no metaphor, thanks to Nick.

Jim-on-the-tape knew nothing of what he had coming to him. He raised a hand to his face, running slim fingers over his jaw, and Jim-in-the-office felt the rasp of stubble against his own palm as he mimicked the action. Jim-on-the-tape stretched out his hand out as though to touch Jim-in-the-office, and as he reached slowly towards his counterpart, touching only the cool glass of the television screen, Jim realised he was looking into a mirror.

"Jim? Oi, Jim? Are you gonna be in there all morning, mate? I need a fookin' whiz."

DS Jim Keats rubbed his jaw again, yawned and stretched. For a moment there he could have sworn he had seen a man in old-fashioned, oversized glasses staring back at him through the bathroom mirror. It had been like looking at himself in a Halloween costume. He shook his head, bemused. Too much work, too little sleep. Was he hallucinating now?

"Only be a minute, Rav." He picked up his toothbrush. No time to worry about it.

"Make sure it is, we're gonna be late."

If they were, it wouldn't be because of Keats. Jim was, always had been, a model of punctuality. If anybody was going to make them late for work in the morning it would be Ravi, who usually rolled out of bed half an hour before they were supposed to be in. This morning, however, Jim had overslept, and he was gratified to see that his flatmate had already made the tea. Washed, brushed, and cleanshaven, he drank off a cup while Ravi performed his own ablutions.

He was putting on his tie when Rav re-appeared, also clean and fresh, and relatively smartly dressed, though not wearing a tie himself. Jim had never met anyone who could _not_ wear a tie so emphatically as Ravi Shoker. He turned to his friend, holding out his hands questioningly, arms wide, fingers spread.

"Well? How do I look?"

Rav shook his head, took hold of Jim's tie and pulled it up until the knot was too tight and askew. "The way you always look, mate. Like a fookin' bank manager." Ravi shook his head in mock-despair. "No wonder you never pull."

Jim snorted as he repaired his tie. "Never get the chance with you around, do I? You're a total tart."

"I am not."

"You are. That party last week at Francesca's? I saw you when those two musicians from Basingstoke arrived. Your face lit up like a Christmas tree and five minutes later, your trousers were round your ankles."

"And you, despite being on a promise with the hottest girl in London, went home early to finish your report for DI Badger-Breath," Rav reminded him. "So tell me, mate, who the fook is doing it right?"

Jim grabbed his coat and his car keys. "Some of us want to get a promotion before our thirtieth birthday," he sniffed.

Rav's face brightened as he followed Jim out of the flat, locking the door behind them. "Decided what you're doing yet?"

"It's nearly a year away," Jim pointed out.

"Yeah, but you have to sort these things early, mate, yeah? Book a function room, sort out the holiday."

"Holiday?"

"Prague, mate! It's where they're all going." Rav wagged a finger in Jim's face.

"I'm not going to bloody Prague."

"Ibiza, then. Last year for the eighteen to thirty club!"

"No, Rav. Pissups round the pool don't interest me at all. I was thinking of going away, though. I thought I might treat myself to a few days in Scotland."

Ravi was unimpressed. "Scotland. What's in Scotland, apart from haggises and irn-bru, and Scottish scrotes instead of English ones?"

"Castles. Lochs. Gorgeous scenery."

"Yeah, and?"

Jim sighed. "I've heard the clubs are good in Edinburgh."

"They're better in Amsterdam! Yeah, let's go to Amsterdam. Or, all right, if you want a relaxing holiday – 'cos you deserve it, mate, you work too fookin' hard – what about the Bahamas? Y'know, cocktails, clean blue water, tight swimming costumes..." he snickered as he hummed a few bars of 'Club Tropicana'.

Jim pulled a face. "Shut up, Rav. You know I hate that stupid song."

"It's my favourite," Ravi objected.

"That's because you have the musical tastes of a semi-educated cretin." Jim told him, adding in a mock-RP accent, "it's what comes of doing a degree in economics, Ravinder."

"This from the bloke who just booked tickets for Coldplay!" Rav chortled.

Their argument continued all the way to work. Jim-in-the-office watched himself drive the battered old car with his usual obsessive caution, obeying every roadsign with precision, always sticking precisely to the speed limit. If only he'd managed that in all respects, he reflected.

On the TV screen Ravi Shoker was laughing. The camera zoomed in close, letting Jim see every detail of his angular face, from his small, even white teeth to the fond look in his dark eyes as he mercilessly teased his friend. Jim reached out once again to touch the screen, his fingers resting lightly against Rav's pixelated cheek. How could he have forgotten Ravi? His flatmate, his best friend...they had been at school together, gone to the same university (though studying different subjects), joined the force only one year apart, when Rav realised he couldn't hack being a merchant banker like his father wanted, and decided Jim's job looked more interesting. They had been fast-tracked through the ranks together, joined CID together, been promoted to detective sergeant at almost exactly the same time.

Yes, they had been inseparable; if the amount of frequently-ribald jokes they were subjected to by their colleagues couldn't pull them apart, career advancement certainly wouldn't. Because of Ravi's background he'd been offered a position in the Fraud Squad early on, but he'd turned it down, ostensibly because he was sick of money, in reality so he could continue to work with Jim. Ultimately they had both ended up in the Drugs Squad, largely because of the useful contacts Jim had made working vice cases. And that was when everything had begun to go wrong.

The tape wasn't dated, but Jim knew, now, exactly what he was looking at, and why Nick had given it to him. This was the Day Before. The last really good day. It would be over a year until Ravi Shoker's death, and still a couple of months until Jim made his first shattering, irrevocable mistake, but still. If he kept watching, he would see himself promoted to Detective Inspector, just six months before Ravi himself received a similar promotion. Fourteen months before they worked together on the DeBrody case, seconded to Manchester CID. Fourteen months and three days before...

Jim hit the 'pause' button on the VCR.

Xxxxx

Daniel Connor had discovered the usefulness of listening outside doors at the age of eleven, when, outside his parents' bedroom, he had heard his father making love to a woman who was not his mother. Initially, this knowledge gained Daniel the BMX bike he had wanted. Because his father genuinely loved his mother, despite his little 'slip', it continued to gain Daniel things right up until university, when his father had gifted him with his first car. Not a grim second-hand chavmobile, either. A good car; a sports car. Michael Connor hadn't really been able to afford it. Daniel hadn't really cared. It was due payment for so many years of silence.

Listening outside Jim Keats' office, Daniel was equally hopeful of gaining information he could trade with. This time the payoff would be much greater than a bike or a car. So far, however, he had heard very little that he could make sense of. He was sure he had seen Nick Callaghan enter the office, and equally sure he had _not _seen him come out. And yet, even with his ear pressed to the door, Daniel could hear only Keats' voice. Was he talking to himself? That would not be a surprise; perhaps it was just the influence of what he had known about Keats outside in the real world, but in the short time Daniel had known him here, in this strange and haunted place, he had decided that despite his outward control, Keats was quite mad. Something deep inside of him was screaming fit to burst its throat, and what Daniel couldn't decide was which of those manifestations – the clever, manipulative man stalking Hunt like prey, or the shrieking, mindless creature within – was the real Keats.

Daniel thought he would have reason to find out, before all this was over.

Giving up on hearing anything useful from his little eavesdropping exercise, Daniel pulled himself out of the uncomfortable, crouching posture he'd adopted to listen at the door, stretching his muscles as he glanced around idly to make sure nobody was watching the watcher, as it were.

He wondered, with a jolt, how long the child had been standing there.

"What do you want?" he asked it, yet again, not really expecting an answer anymore. "Who are you?"

The child's pale eyes were riveted on Daniel's face. Did they see past his outward armour to the fear within?

"_You hurt me_." It was a fluting whisper, more felt than heard. The boy's pallid lips never moved. "_Why did you hurt me?_"

"I didn't hurt you," Daniel managed. The child took a small step towards him, and he stumbled back, bumping into the closed office door. One of the boy's hands was extended towards Daniel in a pleading gesture; the other clutched at a spreading red stain on his own stomach. And still the child kept coming.

"_Hurts..._" he whispered, again, the sound like a dying wind over a vast, empty plain.

"I didn't kill you!" Daniel all but shrieked. For a moment he thought it had worked; the child stopped moving, froze with his hand still extended, fingers inches from Daniel's sweat-slicked face. Then he began to gasp for breath, horribly, eyes bulging from his head, muscles convulsing in his desperation to get air into his lungs. The small body shook wildly, eyes rolling upward, pale skin turning a sickly, bluish shade; monstrous, wet choking noises bled from the tormented oval of the dying mouth.

Daniel closed his eyes.

The noises stopped.

He opened them again, slowly, cautiously.

The boy was still there, mouth and eyes wide open, a bluish-white finger extended and pointing at Daniel. As he watched, transfixed by the child's pale, dead stare, stagnant water gushed from the mouth, puddling on the floor, seeping towards the toes of Daniel's shoes. He closed his eyes again and moaned.

This time, when he opened them, the boy was gone.

Xxxxx

A thump against his office door made Jim stir from where he had been sitting with his face buried in his hands. He cocked his head, listening. The sound was not repeated; instead, a moment later, he heard a thin, anguished, very human noise coming from the other side of the door. Connor was seeing ghosts again. That was not Jim's responsibility; he had his own problems.

The distraction did, however, serve to shake him out of the near-fugue into which he had been sinking. Callaghan had left him this tape for a purpose. It was necessary to continue watching it, however uncomfortable the process might be. Ignoring the cry from outside his office door, he poured another glass of whiskey and hit 'play' again.

Then fast-forward. He couldn't bring himself to look at Ravi again; the shame was too much to bear.

Jim-on-the-tape, months later, looked much more like Jim-in-the-office. Not superficially: while Jim-in-the-office looked sharp and in control despite his inner discomfort, Jim-on-the-tape resembled some kind of folk musician the morning after a particularly heavy night before. His hair was unkempt, his skin sallow and slicked with sweat; the circles beneath his eyes had become vast purple shadows. His clothes looked unwashed, and hung on him limply. He wore no tie. Most importantly of all (as an indicator of his mental state, that is), he was perched precariously on the barrier of the Mancunian Way flyover, wind buffeting his already untidy hair, rain soaking into his unironed shirt.

His current troubles aside, the wind felt good. Liberating.

His hand fumbled in his pocket and he removed a small, white bottle. Without ceremony he upended it, watched with lifeless eyes as a scattering of tiny pills tumbled down to the fast road below.

"Hello."

The voice behind him would have come as a surprise, gentle as it was, but Jim was beyond being startled; he was too tired. More tired than he had ever been in his life. His dazed mind vaguely wondered how he could get the pills back.

While he was wondering, the owner of the voice had crept closer. Jim turned slowly to see a familiar man, conservatively dressed, with calm, serious eyes, and hands outstretched in a placating gesture which confused Jim until he realised its meaning. _Don't jump._

Had it been anyone else – a stranger – he might have laughed. Instead he made an attempt to scramble down from the barrier to the safety of the roadside.

"Sir. I was just...getting some air."

"And you couldn't get enough of it on this side of the barrier?" He spoke lightly, belying his still-cautious extended hands, the careful way in which he slipped closer, as if creeping up on some wild animal which might bolt at any second.

"I, er..." Jim didn't have an answer. He shrugged and tried on a smile. It didn't feel right, and from the other man's reaction, didn't look right either.

"It's Jim, isn't it? DI Jim Keats, from the Metropolitan police. Working on the DeBrody drugs case."

"Yes, sir."

"We're off duty now, Jim. You can call me Sam."

Jim nodded, though he had no intention of addressing a superior in such a familiar way.

"Mind if I join you?" Still that caution; talking down a jumper. _This is all a stupid mistake. I wasn't going to jump_, Jim thought. _Was I_?

"Nice evening," DCI Tyler said, absurdly, leaning against the barrier and looking down at the cars speeding along the wet road below. He smiled, perhaps to show his comment had been a joke, despite the singular lack of humour in his voice.

"I just..." Jim cleared his throat and tried again, "I needed to get out for a while."

"The operation's in two days, isn't it? I've been following your progress. You've worked hard to bring the DeBrody case to a conclusion. It's understandable to be nervous."

_You don't know the half of it, sir, _Jim thought. Unless he did. Could that be it? Could Tyler be here to arrest him? _Did_ they know?

He jumped when Sam spoke again, an apparent non sequiter: "you were fast-tracked, weren't you? You have a degree."

"In psychology," Jim agreed, realising how ridiculous that sounded coming from someone standing on a bridge in the dark and rain, looking like he'd just escaped from a psychiatric hospital.

"It can be stressful, rising through the ranks so quickly. There's a lot of pressure to do well, to prove yourself."

"Yes, sir...Sam. That's true."

A more comfortable silence. Then, "I had a phone call from your immediate superior at the Met. DCI Cooper."

_Badger Breath_, Jim thought, and with effort bit back a wild laugh.

"I've also been talking to a friend of yours. DI Shoker."

Jim lost all desire to laugh. _Rav, what have you said?_

"He's a bit worried about you. They both are. They think you're working too hard, expecting too much of yourself."

"Sorry, sir," Jim gripped the metal rail before him very hard, not wanting Tyler to see his hands shaking, "but why were they talking to you? We hardly know each other."

"Gwen Cooper's an old acquaintance of mine," Tyler explained. "She used to work up here in Manchester before her promotion. To be honest, Jim, she's concerned that she might have been putting too much on you, too soon. Nobody doubts your ability, but from what your friend Ravinder said, you've been working long days and hardly sleeping, for months now. It all adds up, Jim. Take it from me, you don't want to burn out. You've got a brilliant future ahead of you in the Met. Don't risk it."

Jim stared silently into the oncoming night. The cars that raced by below all had their headlights on now, marking the damp road with slicks of nauseating, unnatural yellow. Perhaps Tyler mistook his stiff posture for anger, because he said,

"I know you think I'm interfering, and you're probably annoyed that your friends have been talking to me, but listen – I'm on your side. I've been there, in your place, trying to do too much and suffering for it. Trust me, you don't want to go there, DI Keats."

Jim didn't answer. No, he didn't want to go there; it was just that he had no choice. His shoulders slumped wearily; Tyler, noticing this as he appeared to notice everything, placed a warm hand lightly on his stooped back.

"Let's just let it go for now, then. All I'm really saying is – if you need someone to talk to..."

For a mad, beautiful moment, Jim considered it: telling DCI Tyler everything, making a clean breast of things. It would be the end of his career, but perhaps – just perhaps – he might be able to get his life back. Get _himself_ back.

Jim-in-the-office, Jim-the-thousand-times-damned, wondered what would have happened had he taken up Sam Tyler on his generous offer. He would not be here now, that was for certain. Perhaps neither of them would ever have met Gene Hunt. Jim-on-the-bridge, however, toyed with the idea for a fraction of a second before letting it go, releasing it to be buffeted and snatched away by the wind. He smiled tiredly and said,

"Thank you, Sam."

And then they went their separate ways. Jim had spoken to Sam just once since then – he was still waiting for his answer.

xxxx

A violent crash startled Jim awake. He sat up, blinking stupidly; still mired in the remnants of his dream, he mumbled, "Sam?"

Gene Hunt, standing in the doorway, raised a quizzical and none-too-pleased eyebrow. At first Jim thought he had heard the familiar name...and then Hunt said,

"Where's my whiskey, you thieving little scrotum?"

Jim handed over the empty hipflask with a shrug. Hunt growled at him, made a half-hearted lunge across the desk, then paused. Perhaps he had seen how bloodshot Jim's eyes were, or how his hand had shaken just a little as he passed the flask across; perhaps he simply couldn't be bothered, at this time of night, to work up the energy required to give a colleague a good pasting.

"Luigi's," Gene grunted, instead. "Wouldn't bother asking you, but Cartwright insisted. He's like a ruddy schoolgirl with a crush."

Jim smiled vaguely at that – he rather liked Arnie, with his silly hair and wide, trusting eyes – but said, "no, thanks. Some of us have paperwork to do."

Hunt looked down at him for a moment, green eyes narrowed. After a moment he shrugged. "Please yourself. I'd just as soon not have you there, lurking in the shadows like some sort of unholy cross between a crap policeman and a vampire."

He turned to go. Before he could close the door, something made Jim ask quietly,

"Have you ever found yourself between a rock and a hard place, Gene?"

"No. I don't go to that kind of nightclub."

"You know what I mean." Jim lit up a smoke and offered the pack to Gene. With an expression of almost comical suspicion, as if it might explode in his mouth, Gene took one and allowed Jim to light it for him.

"Have you ever felt caught between two equal and opposing forces?" Jim went on, "knowing that whichever path you choose...you can't win. You're damned, either way."

"Certainly. It's like going to the pub, or not going to the pub. If I go, I'll have a hangover. If I don't, I'll be sober. Buggered either way. Know which one I prefer, though."

Jim shook his head. "You have a gift for bringing the most profound philosophical questions down to gutter-level, don't you?"

"I was top of the class in it at school."

They smoked in silence for a moment, until Gene said, "what the bloody hell are you on about, Jimbo?"

"I used to have this friend, as a kid. He was quiet, intelligent, polite, and helpful. A nice lad all round. And then his parents split up. He agonised over which side to choose – whether to live with Mum or Dad, which would be best, who was most deserving of his loyalty. In the end, he realised it didn't matter, because while they wanted very different things from their lives, neither of them wanted _him_."

Gene smoked his cigarette and didn't say anything except, "is that another meta-whatsit?"

Jim smiled thinly. "Work it out for yourself."

"Well, it's a very interesting story, Jimbo, but it's not getting us drunk, is it? Come on. Sod paperwork. We'll persuade Luigi to give us a lock-in." He got to his feet, reached over the desk and unceremoniously dragged Jim up, as well.

As Gene's hand clamped around his arm, something peculiar happened. A curious tingling coolness – entirely unlike the burning dry heat of Nick Callaghan's touch - spread out from the point of contact until it seemed to engulf Jim's whole body. Instead of pulling away, it made him want to move closer. For the briefest instant he wanted to grab Gene, cling to him and not let go until that strange and wonderful energy had suffused him completely, drowning the fiery, spitting monster inside of him once and for all. Had the others felt this, he wondered? Alex, Ray, Chris and Shaz? Sam Tyler? Had they all been seduced by this absurd feeling that somehow, staying close to Gene would make everything turn out all right?

If Hunt noticed Jim's momentary confusion, he didn't remark upon it. As he shooed Jim out into the cool of the corridor, however, he asked,

"Jimbo. What happened to that friend of yours, in the end?"

"It was a tragic story," Jim said blandly. "He went bad ways, got into drugs, ended up killing himself."

"Oh. Very sad."

"You don't look sad."

"No, but I'm crying like a little girl on the inside, believe me."

Jim snorted. "What a sympathetic nature."

Gene huffed, "haven't ever had much time for junkies, and blokes who off themselves, Jim."

"Believe me when I say," Jim replied, his voice full of meaning, "that I'm well aware of that."

Hunt eyed him for a moment. Jim, regarding him calmly, saw the exact instant when he decided to let the comment go unquestioned. He did a lot of that sort of thing, did Gene Hunt.

"Come on. I'll buy you a glass of poncy Chardonnay. If I get you pissed enough, perhaps you'll let me write something in your filofax. That would be thrilling."

"I'm a naturally exciting person," agreed Jim, locking his office door behind them. "In fact, I'm on fire."


	6. The frying pan of purgatory

A/N. Wow, this one took a long time! Partly for RL reasons I won't bore you with, but mainly because writing this chapter was like getting blood out of a stone. I think Gene and Jim were annoyed that they got so little to do in this one - they both tripped over the enormous sign marked 'plot'. :) On that note, apologies for any liberties taken with normal police procedure, or with the layout of the city of London.

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters you recognise from the show. For the rest, Singh's lethal coffee is an homage to the character of Chief Superintendent 'Farmer' Watson, from Ian Rankin's Rebus books. Fans of 'Space: Above and Beyond' may also recognise a mild shoutout to a certain Lt. Colonel ;)

**6: The frying pan of purgatory**

_Little Blue_

_How do you do?_

_Your smile is like Heaven but your eyes _

_Hold a storm about to brew_

Beautiful South, "Little Blue"

_We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the frying pan of life into the fire of purgatory. _

James Joyce

xxx

When Gene Hunt threw the coffee-stained folder down on his desk, Daniel knew he had been waiting for this moment ever since he arrived in Hunt's bizarre world. His fingers trailed over the folder's rough surface, kissing gently against the pages within. A thin, sharp pain made him draw his finger back, place it in his mouth. A paper-cut, oozing blood.

Hunt was scowling at him. "Shall I book you and the file a nice hotel room, Connor, or are you going to actually do some police work this morning?"

"I cut my finger," Daniel said, taking it out of his mouth and studying it. The cut was surprisingly deep. He could see blood on the paper, blurring its crisp white edges.

"Perhaps you'd like me to get you a tart to kiss it better," Hunt suggested. "One with enormous bosoms and a belt for a skirt. Or shall I ring your mother, ask her to bring your dummy and your favourite teddy bear from home?"

On the other side of the room, half-hidden behind Hunt's solid frame, Daniel heard Jim Keats make a small sound. It was too soft for him to tell whether it had been a snort of amusement or a 'tsk' of disapproval.

"Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone." Daniel replied, eyes locking with Hunt's. "Send me _your_ mother."

Hunt lunged across the desk, pausing only when Keats spoke without bothering to look up from a stack of paperwork he was examining. "Don't, Gene. It isn't fair on the cleaners, who'd have to deal with all the mess."

Hunt had stopped with his flushed, angry face inches from Daniel's, who could see every pore in his skin as he growled back, "fair enough. Next time you so much as mention my dear old mum, Connor, you'll be wearing your bowels for a hat. Understand?"

"Yes." Daniel kept all emotion out of his voice. He didn't drop his gaze, taking some pleasure in the brief look of confusion on Hunt's face as he slowly withdrew.

He tapped the file on Daniel's desk. "Everything we've got so far on the little lad from the canal. We've had a breakthrough: somebody's identified the corpse. I want you to handle this one, Connor. Think of it as your big chance to prove you're not as much of a useless bastard as we all think."

Daniel held Hunt's gaze until the bigger man moved away, disappearing into his office with a brusque gesture in Keats' direction. Keats got up to follow him. As he passed Daniel's desk, he murmured,

"I know it must all seem ridiculous. But trust me – this case is very important, especially for you, on a personal level. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes." Daniel's smile was paper-thin. "I understand very well. Is Callaghan aware that you've taken to hedging your bets, by the way? Have you ever played for any side except your own, Jim?"

The sally didn't strike as close to home as Daniel had hoped. Keats smiled, shook his head. "I was trying to do you a favour, mate. Maybe I shouldn't bother, eh? I've got other options, this time around."

Daniel watched silently as Keats followed Hunt into his office, closing the door and drawing the blinds. He waited until the rest of CID had stopped their staring and snickering, before opening the file. He skipped through the forensic reports first – the boy had indeed been alive when he hit the water: the stab wound in his stomach _would_ have killed him, without treatment, but he had drowned before the sharp silver letter-opener - that so-familiar little item - had had its chance.

Incongruously, at the back of the file was the personal information Hunt's team had managed to gather about the victim. One page only – date of birth, physical description, address, and a name.

A name.

Daniel read it twice, then again. And abruptly understood the oblique remark Keats had made on his way to Hunt's office.

He looked up. The pale, yellow-haired boy was standing in front of his desk, his face averted, gazing towards the closed blinds of Hunt's inner sanctum. Nobody else in the room appeared to react to the small, dripping, bloodstained figure. As though feeling Daniel's gaze on him, the boy turned his head. The face was still ghastly – still dead – and yet it was filled with a terrible animation. The blue eyes stared directly into Daniel's. It was no longer the gaze of a child. Confusion, fear and pain had been replaced by a very adult triumph.

The boy's smile was cold as death.

Xxx

Daniel Connor, DCI, one of the Met's finest specialists in vice. DCI Connor, who had put away no less than three of London's major players in the drug trade. Connor, who paved the way for a fourth to rise to prominence in the twilight of the city's underworld. Daniel's father had been a spineless, worthless specimen, but the young man had learned one crucial lesson from him, one which was to shape his life: knowledge is power. The knowledge of Michael Connor's extramarital affair had provided Daniel with an endless array of expensive gifts from his dear old desperate dad. Daniel had quickly found that the sort of people he had the opportunity of meeting as a vice copper also had secrets they wanted kept - and that they could offer him a great deal more in return than a new games console or a secondhand car.

It was all very easy. Working in vice gave Daniel the contacts he needed to make enough money to keep him in the manner to which he had been accustomed - i.e., having everything he wanted without expending a significant amount of effort, or taking any undesirable risks. For two years, it all went beautifully: quietly and competently Daniel kept a few secrets, and made the fallout of a few little indiscretions go away. In return, as well as his irregular pay-packet, Daniel arranged a gentleman's agreement that if his unofficial employer should find himself in an unfortunate legal position, Daniel would have complete deniability. Minimal risk, handsome payoff, perfect situation...in retrospect, he had been naive to think that such a set-up could last for very long.

The vice squad was instructed to investigate Daniel's friendly contact, the nice man who filled his wallet on a semi-regular basis and helped him earn a swift and early promotion by providing insider information which allowed Daniel to send his competitors in the demanding career of drug-trafficking to prison. Potential disaster: Daniel could simply invoke the 'deny all knowledge' portion of the contract he had made with his friendly tame drug baron, but that would mean the end, at least for a while, of his lucrative moonlighting operation. Further, Daniel could not be absolutely sure that the man who called himself 'Dr. P. Harm', or simply 'the Doctor', would uphold his end of the bargain - outside of books and TV shows, career criminals rarely demonstrated the fabled concept of honour among thieves.

The problem was dire, but its solution was obvious: ensure that he, Connor, was put in charge of the case (easy, with his track record), and make the evidence go away as unobtrusively as possible. One failure on top of all his successes would not detract very much from his reputation as a police officer, and he would earn significant brownie points (convertible to 1 - favours and 2 - hard cash) with the enigmatic Doctor.

It was a beautiful plan - until Daniel's immediate superior, Superintendent Suman Singh, threw a curveball.

"The Met has absolute faith in you, Daniel," Singh said, waving Connor to a chair and offering him coffee from an espresso machine which sat in place of the more usual water cooler or potplant. "We feel, however, that the work of this case will be too much for a single chief investigating officer to manage by himself. Although we're somewhat overstretched at the moment, you will be assigned a senior Inspector to take over some of the paperwork."

Singh took a long sip of decaffeinated coffee, smiled contentedly, and waved at Daniel to do the same. Feeling that he was signing some kind of devil's contract, Daniel took a cautious slurp of the murky, nerve-jangling liquid. He was never sure whether Singh was sincere in his drastic overestimation of his colleagues' respective tolerance levels for caffeine, or whether he simply used the lethal coffee as a test of his subordinates' characters. "Who are you intending to assign, sir?" Daniel's tone was perfectly controlled, casual but not too casual, an undercurrent of mild indignation peeping through. To be entirely unconcerned at having to share the kudos of bringing in a major player with another officer would have sounded a false note.

"That, Chief Inspector, is in part up to you," Singh said, looking pleased that Daniel had passed the espresso test. "Who would you like as your second-in-command?"

And there it was: a glimmer of hope. Daniel could not demand all the glory for himself without giving a bad impression; besides, he was phobic about giving the superintendent - who was as sharp as his coffee was bitter - any grounds, no matter how slight, for suspicion. Daniel hesitated, was about to ask for a day or two to think it over, when inspiration struck.

"DI McQueen, sir."

"Gordon McQueen?" Singh's greying eyebrows lifted, almost brushing the edge of his somber navy-blue Dhamala turban. "And why him?"

Daniel could hardly give the real reason - that McQueen's wife Pamela had been diagnosed with aggressive multiple sclerosis six years ago; more importantly, her condition had recently begun to deteriorate rapidly. This made McQueen ideal in two ways: firstly, that he was likely to be so distracted by his personal problems that he would be more than willing to let Daniel take on most of the workload; secondly, that if McQueen did by some chance manage to find out something incriminating about his fellow officer, the escalating cost of his wife's treatment meant that he would be the perfect candidate for a bribe.

The only difficulty was convincing Singh that McQueen was suitable for the job in any legitimate way.

"Gordon has a lot of experience, sir. His record in this area..."

"I'm aware of his record." Singh seemed torn. On the one hand, Pamela McQueen's illness was common knowledge, and the source of much sympathy in the Met for her likeable, harried husband. A case like this could help McQueen towards a cushy promotion and a bigger pay packet. He deserved these things as much as anyone. Problem was, the same reasons which made Daniel want him on the case were precisely why Singh might not. Daniel, however, was confident of getting his way.

He always had.

xxx

Gordon McQueen was tallish and lightly built, with the kind of graceful, tidy musculature more traditionally associated with a dancer than a copper. Indeed, Daniel understood that before her illness, McQueen and his wife had cut an enthusiastic rug at their weekly ballroom classes.

When he shook Daniel's hand and thanked him for ensuring Singh's recommendation (it was an open secret, apparently, that the much-lauded King of Vice had personally requested to share his latest accolade with his blighted fellow officer) McQueen's grip was weak and clammy. Daniel pulled his hand back as quickly as possible, gazing curiously into the other man's pale, worried face. McQueen's flaxen hair had become both greyer and thinner over the last few months, and his trim waistline was thickening; comfort eating, Daniel suspected. He wouldn't be surprised if comfort-drinking rapidly followed; McQueen looked like a man on the brink of complete despair.

Perfect.

"You're sure you want this?" Daniel asked, scultping his face into an expression of comradely concern. "If everything goes our way, this case could be time-intensive."

McQueen licked his lips. He searched Daniel's gaze, his sad, pale-blue eyes flicking rapidly and appealingly over Daniel's face, seeking any sign that Daniel had changed his mind, decided he wasn't up to this. He made Daniel think of a spaniel puppy wearing contact lenses.

"I can do this," McQueen said earnestly. "I - I need this."

Daniel nodded, altering his expression slightly. Now it said: I'm concerned, but I believe in you. It worked like a charm - McQueen's face relaxed minutely, the ghost of the shadow of a smile appearing. "Thank you, sir." Oh, but that grateful little smile could break your heart. If you happened to have one. Another encouraging nod from Daniel, and McQueen was on board. He was about to bring to the investigation an entirely unexpected degree of dedication, tenacity, and insight, plus an incorruptible sense of duty. To his credit, of course.

And his detriment.

xxx

At 8.15pm, on the second day of the third week of his investigation into the Dr. P. Harm case, Daniel finally got home to his tidy, well-appointed flat. It was not a large home, but it came with a luxury which particularly pleased him: the sitting room windows overlooked Limehouse Cut, the oldest canal in London. Here, nestled between battered warehouses and scenic towpaths, Daniel made his home. He was fond of the small balcony, equipped with a white-painted metal folding table and a single matching chair, where he liked to sit on warm evenings, watching the sparkle of starlight and streetlamps on the dark water.

It had been a long day: perhaps unsurprisingly, sabotaging a high-level police investigation was a great deal more difficult than actually conducting one. Gordon McQueen was the main problem. He was proving unexpectedly tenacious about the details of the case, leaving no stone unturned, no file unopened, no angle unexplored. Gentle suggestions that he should probably go home to his sick wife before it was too late were less effective than predicted, and Daniel was forced to conclude that he had underestimated both his colleague's competence, and his dedication.

Given all this, the message waiting for Daniel on his answerphone, left only minutes ago, was far from a pleasure. McQueen's recorded voice, with its faint Lancashire burr, was harried, unhappy. "Daniel? Something came up after you left. Something you should...I need to talk to you. I'm coming over to your flat, now. If you're not there by then, I'll wait. I'm going to try your mobile in the meantime."

Beep. End of message.

Daniel let out a long, exasperated breath, took his mobile phone out of his pocket and switched it off, threw his car keys and driving gloves irritably on the table, and spent a few minutes pacing, trying to get his thoughts in order. Logic had always been his greatest ally. Point one: McQueen wouldn't call him at home unless he had something important to impart. Point two: they were not friends, merely colleagues; the only current point of connection between them was the Dr. P. Harm case. A breakthrough in the case was inevitably the reason for the call; however, point three: there was a notable lack of the puppyish triumph Connor would have expected to hear in McQueen's voice. Therefore, point four: McQueen had uncovered something he subsequently wished he hadn't, but having discovered it, felt it was his duty to persue.

The only possible logical conclusion: point five, McQueen had learned something about Connor's connection to the Doctor. Not enough to absolutely convince him: he was giving his colleague a chance to explain himself. Question: what had McQueen found, when Connor had so carefully covered his tracks, obliterating or burying every page of the paper trail? He racked his brains, couldn't think of a single thing he had missed. Naturally - if he'd known what it was, he wouldn't have missed it.

McQueen would not have told anybody yet. He would have called Daniel first, giving him that chance to clear himself. Partly his sense of honour, obligation to a colleague, partly because exposing a superior officer - especially one so respected and above suspicion as the celebrated DCI Daniel Connor - as thoroughly corrupt would not be an easy process. Connnor doubted McQueen could handle the stress, on top of his personal problems. It would probably be easy enough to convince Singh that McQueen's admittedly stoic mind had finally crumbled under the demands made upon it. Then again - Daniel had discovered an undercurrent of steel in his colleague which he had not predicted. There remained the worrying possibility that dogged, dutiful Gordon would actually manage to follow the case through to its painful, shameful end.

Daniel would not and could not take that risk, however small. McQueen would require approximately twenty minutes to reach Daniel's flat, if he came straight here after making his phone call. Daniel made his decision, therefore, with a few minutes to spare. His plan had only two key requirements, both of which he thought would be fulfilled. He needed McQueen to be alone, and he needed that nobody overhear their meeting. Life was not like a cop film - the man was hardly likely to show up wearing a hidden microphone, with three squad cars full of armed officers waiting outside to take Daniel down as soon as he confessed his sins.

No. McQueen would be alone, desperate to be wrong, and entirely unprepared for the reception he was going to get. Slowly, thoughtfully, Daniel put back on his leather driving gloves, and took down an ornamental paper-knife, a gift from an ex-girlfriend which he never used, but displayed on his mantelpiece due to its attractiveness. It was silver, shaped like a miniature sword, the handle sculpted into the form of a Templar knight. He tapped it absently against his gloved palm as he crossed the room, opening the balcony door to gaze thoughtfully, contemplatively, down at the dark and silent water.

xxx

In CID, painfully aware that both Hunt and Keats were watching him through the window of Hunt's office, Daniel lifted the cover of the manilla folder between finger and thumb and slowly, reluctantly, flicked through the pages to the back of the file. He read, again, the name written at the top of the final sheet (lightly stained, he noted once again, with his own blood), hoping irrationally that he might have misread the reporting officer's inadequate scrawl. He knew he had not. The name was clear enough: Gordon Andrew McQueen. The name of a man Connor had known in 2008 as DI McQueen; a man who, in 1985, would still have been a boy, just ten years old.

A flaxen-haired boy, with sad, searching blue eyes.


End file.
